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IS THIS RELIGION? •: . 


• OR, 



A PAGE FROM THE BOOK OF THE 
WORLD. 


By the •Author of *^May you like - 


Faithful. But I am ready to tliink you do but jest, because you 
smiled. 

Christian. God forbid that I should jest (though I smiled) in this 
matter, or that I should accuse any falsely. 

THE pilgrim’s PROGRESS. 






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FIRST AMERICAN FROM THE LONDON EDITION. 




(SJforrjttotan, 'B. (t. 

PUBLISHED BY JAMES THOMAS. 3^ n 

1827. 


.TAMES C. nUNX, PRIXTEU. 



MY OWN DEAREST ADINE 


THIS LITTLE VOLUME 


Is DEDICATED 


BY HER HUSBAND, 






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IS THIS EELIGION? 


CHAPTER 1. 

Maria Graham was born in a certain coun- 
try town, about fifty miles from London: her fa- 
ther was, what is called, an ^‘eminent grocer.’’ 
Maria had been much loved by her young com- 
panions while she was a child, for she had a fine 
flow of natural spirits, and was often the gayest 
among them. At an early age she was sent to 
a day-school in her native town, and was very 
happy when her mother allowed her to invite 
some of her young school-fellows to pass a long 
summer evening with her. The little girls used 
to drink tea in a large arbour at the end of the 
garden, which commanded a view only of Mr. 
Graham’s bright red brick mansion and ware- 
houses, with prim Mrs. Graham seated at one of 
the lower windows, looking up with a smile from 
her work every now and then towards the little 
girls, or in other wmrds, watching them; but 
what cared they for the view, or w hat w as a bet- 


G 


Is this Eeligion? 


ter view than the green sides of the arbour, and 
the large plum-cake, and their own merry faces? 
The happy children were allowed to take a walk 
as soon as tea was over^ and when Mrs. Graham 
made her appearance in her bonnet and shawl, 
there was a general rush from the arbour, and 
the kind lady’s voice was often raised above its 
usual pitch, with ^‘Miss Robins, Sarah Robins, 
my dear, don’t speak quite so loud! — It’s not 
pretty to jump over a watering-pot, Miss Tod — 
Maria! Maria Graham, whei*e are your feet? 
You know your papa would be in a fine fuss if he 
could see you walking so close to his cucumber 
frames! — Who has trod down this line plant of 
London Pride? — Deary me, children! you quite 
weary me out! — Oh gracious! don’t go so near the 
^vell! — I knew a little Miss, whose father lived in 
Tooley-street in the Borough, who was staying 
for a day with her aunt at Peckham Rye, and she 
slipped away to the well before — Dear! Mercy 
on me! where are they all gone?” she cried, find- 
ing that her only auditor was one little mild girl. 
But while tlie good creature w^as describing how 
the little Miss had slipped away, her daughter 
and the wild troop had slipped away into the shop, 
and finding there only Mr. Bennet the foreman, 
and one customer, a little boy, they were dancing 
about, and jumping on the counters, and asking 
Mr Bennet for plums and sugar-candy: nay, one 


Is this Religion? 7 

had gone so far as to steal the pen from behind 
Mr. Bennet’s ear, when Mr. Graham himself ap- 
peared with his large grave face at the door, and 
put to flight the noisy troop in a moment. 

When Maria Graham was twelve years of age, 
she was sent up to an expensive boarding-school 
near London, where she was taught to read and 
speak French and Italian; and to draw large 
heads in chalks; and to paint small skreens with 
flowers, which looked very smooth and very 
bright, but not at all like real flowers; and to 
dance Scotch dances, and French dances, and 
Spanish dances, and German dances; and to write 
long themes in very fine language; and to play 
favourite airs, with flourishing variations, on the 
harp and piano-forte: and to sing Italian bra- 
vuras. 

At sixteen she left school, and came home to 
her parents as finished, I'hey looked up to her 
as a superior being; and if so many accomplish- 
ments could have made her so, she was superior. 
She had good natural abilities, and had not learnt 
any thing as girls learn in general; she did speak 
French and Italian well, she drew, and danced, 
and played, and sung very well; but was she im- 
proved? Her former companions thought not, 
for she did not appear to have any clear recollec- 
tion of them; and if she noticed them, her distant 
manner and slight bow were more provoking 


8 


Is this Religion f 


than decided rudeness. Her cousin, Luke Allan, 
sighed over the change as the rich, full melody of 
her voice, mingling with the accompaniment of 
her harp, reached his ear in the shop. He could 
not help feeling she had made but a poor exchange 
in giving up her own simple and natural ways 
for so many fine accomplishments. Even her 
parents had at times a few misgivings at the bot- 
tom of their hearts, though they never allowed 
such thoughts a moment’s grow^th, much less 
gave a hint to one another on the subject. 

There was one, how^ever, of Maria’s own fa- 
mily, who neither sighed over, nor suspected the 
change, but who bluntly, and in the most down- 
right language, said, “The girl is spoiltl” — 
This person was Luke Allan’s mother, an elder- 
ly widow, whose husband had been an honest 
baker. Mrs. Allan was a woman of strong 
mind, abounding in good common sense. She 
was apt to speak the truth, and the plain truth, 
at all times: some persons thought too often. — 
She had read much, although in a few hooks^ for 
she had turned her reading to account. Her on- 
ly unmarried daughter, Bessy Allan, had been 
long the most intimate friend of her cousin; but 
something which Rachael felt to be coolness, had 
discovered itself in Maria at times — only at 
times, for there were seasons when Maria was 
as familiar and communicative as ever. 


Is this Religion ? 


9 


^^Well, sister,’’ said Mr. Graham to Mrs. Al- 
lan, a few evenings after Maria’s return from 
school, <^Maria has come home for good, and 
what do you think of her ?” 

Mrs. Allan had been drinking tea with the 
Grahams: and she was walking up and down the 
broad gravel walk in her brother’s garden, with 
Mr. Graham at hei‘ side. 

^‘Tell me your opinion, now,” he said: <‘What 
do you think of lier paintings, and her music, 
and her fine works of all sorts ?” 

^*A11 very fine, I dare say, brother; though 
I’m not much of a judge ! Now, to my mind, 
I set more store by that large sampler which 
Maria turned out of the back parlour, framed 
and glazed as it was, than I do by all those gay 
pictures: Maria was the best marker, for a girl, 
I ever met with.” 

<^Aye! that’s very true, sister; and I was 
quite against sending away that sampler; for 
tliere was a time when I looked upon it with 
much pride: but then, to be sure, as my wife 
says, those drawings put the old day-school 
sampler to the blush. Maria,” he added, after 
walking a few steps in silence, ‘‘has cost me a 
mort of money; but then she will be an heiress, 
and I shall send her into the world with an 
education and a fortune fit for any lady in the 
land.” 


to 


Is this Religion? 


^‘0 papa!’’ exclaimed a sweet and joyous 
voice, and broke off the solemn discussion, ‘‘do 
look at these books! Has not Harvey bound 
them well ? — ^beautifully for a country bookbind- 
er ?” 

“Very well, indeed,” said the honest man, 
taking the volumes out of the white hands of his 
daughter, who had tripped up to him before he 
heard her approach. “And what books may 
these “be ? They are wonderously little, how- 
ever.” 

“Guarini, dear papa!” 

“What name did you say, child ?” asked Mrs. 
Allan, in her usual dry manner. 

“Gilarini, aunt — II Pastor Fido A charm- 
ing book! I delight in it! You would like it so 
much ! O you should read it ! Let me see ! — 
Yes, I can lend you a translation — (for I don’t 
think you read Italian ) — viy translation/ It 
gained the prize at Hanburyhouse. Miss Honey- 
wood highly approved itj and she gave me the 
prize without hesitation. This lovely bracelet,” 
she added, (holding out her arm as she spoke,) 
“with this dear lock of her hair in the clasp !” and 
she kissed it affectedly. “She’s a sweet love, 
that darling Miss Honey wood! She has a dear 
affectionate heart ! — But you’ll like to read it, 
my dear aunt !” 

“Read what, my child ?” inquired Mrs. Al- 


Ts thiR Religion? 


11 


Ian; who, with her brother, had stood in mute 
amazement during Maria’s harangue. 

^^Read my prize translation of Guarini’s li 
Pastor Fido!” 

“Not I, Maria, if you’d pay me for it.” 

There was a slight curl about Maria’s upper 
lip, which some persons might have called con- 
temptuous; but Mr. Graham did not observe it, 
and Mrs. Allan was short-sighted. 

“Maria is a fine scholar,” said the father, as 
the girl turned carelessly away. “She has read 
a world of books.” 

“Was the Bible one of them ?” asked the old 
lady. “I am afraid that is too old fasliioned a 
book to be much in favour at that same Hanbury- 
house.” 


“I’m come to have a little conversation with 
you, niece,” said old Mrs. Allan, as she entered 
the elegant apartment which had been set apart, 
and furnished expressly for Maria. “Can yau 
give me half an hour ?” 

“Oh ! yes, dear ma’am,” replied the affected 
girl, rising from her harp, with a gracious smile: 
and then, having closed her music book with a 
deep sigh, as if regretting the necessity which 
called her away, she came forward and offered 
her aunt a chair. “But perhaps you w ould pre- 
fer the sofa,” she exclaimed, tenderly: and as 


12 


Is this Rdigiont 


the old lady was about to seat herself, she drag- 
ged her off to a long low sofa, and there sat 
down beside her. 

<‘If I sit here, child,” 'said her aunt, must 
trouble you to shut down that window, for I 
can’t bear a draught; and do pray take away 
that bough-pot from under my nose, or those 
sickly flowers will make me feel quite faintish.” 

Maria closed the window, and removed the 
flowers immediately, with the air of a martyr, 
and sitting down again, took her aunt’s hand 
within her own, and looked up silently into her 
face. 

“You know, Maria,” the old woman began, 
“or if you don’t, I do, that you are my godchild; 
and I think it my duty to ask of you what you 
know of your Bible ? if you have sought salvation 
through Christ, and the grace of God’s spirit ?-— 
For, as our catechism has it, ‘thou art not able 
to walk in the commandments of God, and to 
serve him. Without his special grace, wliich thou 
must learn at all times to call for by diligent 
prayer.’ ” 

Before Mrs. Allan could finish what she had 
to say, the impatient girl had sprung up, her 
countenance brightening with significant smiles. 
“Wait, wait a moment — don’t say a, word till I 
come to you, my dearest aunt;” and while speak- 
ing, she drew open a deep drawer in a cabinet 


1$ this Religion^ 


13 ' 


of polished satin wood: ^<Here!’^ she cried, fling- 
ing down a set of thick volumes, bound in purple 
morocco, upon the table. She opened one of 
them, showing pages closely written from top to 
bottom: ‘‘Here, judge for yourself! these are my 
religious exercises, my Sunday themes! Dear 
Miss Honeywood has added a few remarks to 
each volume! Religion was not neglected at 
Hanbury-liouse. We made notes in church on 
the sermon — here are some of mine” — And she 
slowly turned over a few pages, reading all the 
while audibly to herself. “Oh ! but let me see ! 
you’ll wish to look into this volume — the third; 
no, the fourth — on confirmation! Here it be- 
gins, ‘Theme tlie first.’ ” Then again, she sud- 
denly interrupted herself. I do not know if I 

ever told you that I was confirmed last year 

We all went (we elder ones, I mean,) to church, 
dressed in pure spotless white — so elegant ! white 
pelisses, and long white veils ! Miss Honeywood 
lent me her best veil, which came to my knees — 
I was always her favourite !” 

Poor Mrs. Allan was quite confounded. She 
had half expected haughtiness, contempt, care- 
lessness in the answers of her niece, to her ques- 
tions; but this eager readiness, this joyful anxie- 
ty to show forth all her religious acquirements, 
overwhelmed her. To every thing she said, her 
niece bowed assent, and then turned to some part 
B 


14 


Is this Religion? 


of her morocco volumes; and read aloud, in a 
theatrical manner, the fine flimsy sentences, full 
of sounding words, under which the sense was. 
so smothered, that the old lady gave up the 
search for sense as hopeless; and shaking her 
head, rose from the sofa, and abruptly quitted 
the apartment. 

A few months after her return home. Miss 
Graham became acquainted with a lady who had 

taken a small house near . Mrs. Hunter 

Bond was a very gay, though not a very young 
widow, whose mother had been first cousin to 

Lord L , and whose husband had been 

younger brother to Sir Benjamin Hunter Bond. 
She had very little money, but great pretensions 
to stylishness; and Maria told her cousin, Bessy 
Allan, the first time they passed Mrs. Hunter 
Bond in the street, that she was amazingly like 
her beloved Miss Honeywood of Hanbury-house. 

‘^Now, ,my dear,’^ she said, “that is what I 
oall style, real style. How well she walks ! and 
what an elegant pelisse! Did you ever see a 
sweeter silk ? I’m glad you have seen her, after 
all I have told you about Hanbury-house.” 

“Pray who is that lady in the lilac pelisse, 
that has just passed ?” asked Maria, as she en- 
tered Miss Maple’s, the milliner shop. 

“Why, la! dear Miss, don’t you know?” rc- 


Is this Religion? 


15 


plied Miss Maple, who was also gazing after 
the stranger with all the scrutinizing and diges- 
tive observance of a milliner’s eye. “It’s Mrs. 
Hunter Bond, that’s come to old Parson’s Cot-' 
tage at the back of Duck-lane. Not that I know 
much about lier^ for she hardly noticed my card 
when I called and presented it myself. Mayhap 
your papa haven’t left his yet ?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know. — I never go near that 
odious shop,” said Maria, turning, and address- 
ing the latter part of her sentence to Bessy: then 
she continued in a low voice as they left the shop, 
“I f .a sure Mrs. Hunter Bond shows her taste 
in never noticing Miss Maple’s city finery— I 
wnnder who would, that knows any thing of 
style !” 

Miss Graham had discernment enough to per- 
ceive that Mrs. Hunter Bond was really a wo- 
man of fashion, though she had taken old Par- 
son’s Cottage at the hack of Duck-lane. A few 
days after, while she was sitting half lost in re- 
trospective day-dreams about Hanbury-house, 
almost heedless of certaij^ndistinct sounds which 
arose from the shop ben^^i> Mrs. Hunter Bond 
appeared in Lady Mobray’s barouche, in earnest 
conversation witli the Lady Harriet Mobray. — 
Maria was thrown into a restless state of anxie- 
ty, whidi scarcely left her till she had become 
acquainted with so stylish a person. Maria 


16 


Is this Religion / 


knew that her wishes could not be gratified with- 
out some difficulty; but she had an enterprising 
character, and in her own mind the thing was 
soon determined. Chance, however, brouglit about 
the meeting better than her best manoeuvering 
could have done. She was one afternoon play- 
ing on the pianno-forte to an old lady, who had 
known and noticed her from a child, and to 
whose house Maria was always delighted to be 
asked, when Mrs. Hunter Bond was announced. 

‘‘Oh! pray, don’t let me interrupt you !” she 
said; and smiled most graciously upon Maria, 
who had risen from the music-stool. Having 
spoken to the old lady, she tuVned again to 
Maria. “I am very fond of music; and this,” 
she continued (taking up a piece of loose music 
which lay on the table, J “this is very fine and 
very difficult too. I think I have heard you 
mention a young friend, Mrs. Andrews, who 
sometimes indulged you by bringing her music?” 
Mrs. Andrews bowed assent. “Am I so fortunate 
as to have met her now ?” Mrs. Andrews bow- 
ed again. Maria was prevailed upon to play, 
and she did play wdth^execution, and with feel- 
ing. Mrs. Hunter Bond appeared so pleased, 
that the old lady pressed her to pass the rest of 
the evening with Maria and herself. As for 
Maria, she was delighted, and her delight seem- 
ed to inspire her with a peculiar powder of pleas- 


Is this Religion? 


17 


ing: her conversation was found equal to her 
playing, and Mrs. Hunter Bond inwardly con- 
gratulated herself on having found so agreeable 
a companion. Maria was at that time very 
lovely; her large dark eyes were full of intelli- 
gence; her dark brown glossy hair was loosely 
fastened up with almost classical elegance: her 
dress also was elegant and more simple than 
usual; and her shoes and feet were as delicately 
neat as those of a French woman. 

Mrs. Hunter Bond was a keen observer; and 
she often wondered within herself, during the 
evening, who this Miss Graham could be. — 
‘‘Graham ! Graham she said at length, when 
Maria had taken her departure, (for she had de- 
termined to outstay her): “Mrs. Andrews, do 
tell me who is this young friend of yours ? I don’t 
remember to have heard her name before — Lady 
Mobray never mentioned her — where does she 
reside ? In the tow n, I suppose, for her carriage 
did not come for her.” 

“She will be one of the richest heiresses in 
this country,” replied Mrs. Andrews: “but her 
father is a grocer.” 

“Oh! — a grocer!” — Mrs. Hunter Bond said 
nothing more, but also took her leave. 

Mr. Graham possessed a farm in a beautiful 
valley about two miles from the town, where he 
B 2 


18 


Is this Religioni^ 


resided; whicii, under the improvements of Maria, 
soon grew into a sort of cottage ornee. 

Her father gave this farm to his daugliter, on 
her nineteenth birth-day; and afterwards Maria 
passed more than half her time at the Cottage- 
farm, as she now named it. 

Mrs. Andrews was often in very delicate 
health, and Maria succeeded in prevailing upon 
the old lady to pass a few weeks with her at the 
Cottage-farm, and, indeed, manoeuvcred so 
well when Mrs. Hunter Bond called upon Mrs. 
Andrews, that the former was induced to repeat 
her visit — ^Ho pass a long day with them.’’ 

Mrs. Hunter Bond was also prevailed upon to 
return home in Miss Graham’s little pony-cart, 
and Maria loaded the cart with flowers and 
fruit, and vegetables, and cream, and butter, and 
bi*own bread, and eggs. The next day, Mrs. 
Andrews received a note from her friend,- in 
which Miss Graham was spoken of in terms 
which made Maria blush with pleasure, and the 
fair writer described herself as quite ennuyee 
since her return home; and half promised to pass 
another long day at the Cottage-farm. In fact, 
Mrs. Hunter Bond, from that time, found it very 
convenient, when free from all engagements with 
her friends in high life, to profit by the liberal 
attentions of the wealthy Miss Graham. Some- 
times, certainly, when in the company of Lady 


19 


Is this Religion? 

Mobray and her set, slie had passed Miss Gra- 
ham without noticing her; but then (as she often 
reminded Maria in private) she was so shocking- 
ly near-sighted, she often passed her dearest 
friends! She had, indeed, made such unplea- 
sant mistakes sometimes, by bowing to strang- 
ers, in her own anxiety not to be rude to any 
one, that she had almost determined not to bow 
to any one! <‘You know, therefore, I cannot 
ever be really rude.’’ ‘^She cannot ever be real- 
ly rude repeated Maria to herself. — She wish- 
ed to feel persuaded of this, and she had little 
difficulty in sw allowing down her doubts. 


CHAPTER IL 


Maria was staying for a few weeks witli her 
friend Miss Honeywood, when she was suddenly 
recalled home by the dangerous illness of her 
mother. She arrived only in time to behold the 
corpse of that tender and kind-hearted parent. — 
Within a year of his wife’s deatli, Mr. Graham 
was also taken ill; and Maria, wlio bad always 
fondly loved her parents, was pleased to think 
that she had an opportunity of showing her affec- 
tion for her father by all those little numberless 
attentions which women only seem to understand. 
But notwithstanding the unremitting care and 
tender nursing of his child, and the skill of the 
first medical men that could be procured, Mr. 
Graham’s disorder soon assumed symptoms of a 
very alarming character. From having been 
remarkably large and fat, he became rapidly 
emaciated to a frightful degree. He could not 
bear Maria to leave liim, yet her liveliest con- 
versation soon failed to cheer him; and when she 
read to him the sort of books to which lie had 
once loved to listen, he would tell her that he 
could not keep up his attention, and that she had 
better leave off reading. Maria prepared with 


Is this Religion ? 


21 


her own hands every little dainty which she 
thought might please him; but though at first, 
and if taken to him by surprise, he would try to 
cat: his appetite soon failed him altogether. — 
About day-break one morning, Maria, who had 
been sitting up all the night, alone, in her fa- 
ther^s sick chamber, was insensibly dropping to 
sleep, almost worn out with the fatigue of repeat- 
ed watchings. Her father had seemed to lie 
in a stupor during the chief part of the night, 
but he suddenly called out in a louder voice 
than usual, and bade his daughter come to 
him. Maria started up, fearing that he had 
been suddenly taken worse; but, on approaching 
the bed, she found her father sitting up, and wide 
awake. There was a peculiar expression of se- 
rious thought upon his countenance, and as he 
spoke^ Maria was astonished to observe that he 
had recovered much of that self-possession which 
had, for weeks, been gradually deserting him.— 
do not know,” he began, ^^whether I have 
been dreaming, or merely wandering in my 
thoughts, but many circumstances of my younger 
days have been presented to my mind; among 
which, one has continually come before me — 
the little chamber in which my own poor father 
passed the last months of his mortal life. — I 
have often told you that he died very young: 
he was not more than eight and twenty; but 


Is this Meligion? 


be over-exerted himself in bis cure, soon after 
be was made minister of the little village of 

N , in Aberdeeiisliire; and, with mistaken 

zeal, as be himself afterw ards conies ^ed, instead 
of laying by for a time, he became even more 
unrelaxing in his labours. A neglected cold 
preyed on his enfeebled frame with such fatal ra- 
pidity, that he was carried in a few months to 
his grave, leaving his wife and four infants (for 
tlie eldest was scarcely six years old,) almost in 
beggary. I can, even now, in thought, see him 
as he used to sit in liis largo chair, pointing out 
with his long thin forefinger, verse after verse, 
in the Bible, from which he made me read to 
him. I think you look very like him now, Ma- 
ria, as you stand there so grave, and pale with the 
fatigue of your kind nursing of your poor father ! 
He used to talk to me very often, and sometimes, 
till he could scarcely open his mouth from the 
exertion; but not a w ord that he said do I remem- 
ber, except that he told me not to forget how 
that my father’s best comfort was his Bible!— 
The strangeness of this assertion made me re- 
member it; for it was very strange ^o me. I 
could find no comfort in the Bible, because I felt 
it very contrary to my inclination to be obliged 
to leave my own merry play in the green field, 
before the manse, to read long chapters out of an 
old heavy book which I could not understand. 


Is this Religion? 


23 


<‘When my mother went up with us to lier 
rich uncle’s in London, I used to hear very little 
of my poor fatlier; for she soon married again: 
and I remember that my uncle and lier new hus- 
band, when walking together, often agreed that 
my father must have been a half-crazed Method- 
ist, to go on in the ways that he did: and then 
my mother would sigh, and seem as if she felt 
what they said to be too triie, though it grieved 
her to hear them speak so; but she never contra- 
dicted them. She was a kind mother, but I now 
fear a w orldly woman ! How ever, I must short- 
en all this. — Maria, I have .lived many years, 
and made a large fortune, and enjoyed many 
comforts; but I now believe tliat I am on my 
death-bed, and that I must soon leave tliis world 
forever. It is this fear that has made me ap- 
pear so low and so lost of late, though I have till 
now kept my thoughts to myself. Last night, 
as it began to grow dark and gloomy, you had 
just left the room, and for a few minutes I was 
in such a low way that my very heart and soul 
seemed to die within me. All, on every side of 
me, was hopeless; for I felt no comfort in look- 
ing back, and I could only see the grave before 
me. I cried out to God in my distress, but I 
don’t think I had any thought of prajing in my 
heart: persons, you know, will cry out, 'Lord, 
have mercy upon me,’ from mere habit. There 


24 


Is this Religion? 


was a something, however, that seemed just to 
whisper to my heart, ‘Rise up and pray^’ but I 
did not care to exert myself, even in thought, to 
do so. From this state, I fell into the sort of 
dreaming I liave told you of. Now, Maria, as I 
can find no comfort from this world, I begin to 
suspect that my poor father was right about the 
Bible. Send to the curate, will you, and ask 
him to be so kind as to come and see me 

Maria did not reply, for her heart was full of 
grief, and she felt tliat if she tried to speak, she 
should he unable to restrain her tears. 

“Don’t you like to send for tlie curate, my 
love, for you have not yet answered me ?’^ 

“O yes! dear, dear father,” she cried, clasp- 
ing both her father’s hands in her own; and then 
kissing them repeatedly — “Oyes! I am delight- 
ed to hear you speak as you do, though I can’t 
bear to hear you talk of death. Of course, I 
will send for the curate instantly, and I hope he 
will give you comfort.” 

Mr. Temple was sent for: he was one of the 
mildest of human beings, and universally belov- 
ed. Waria received him in her own sitting- 
room, and she was charmed with the elegance 
of his manners, for he was a man of high birth, 
and accustomed to high society, though he then 
was performing for a stipend not so high as that 
which is given to a French cook, the laborious 


Is this Religion? 


2*5 


duties of curate to the crowded parish of . 

Mr. Temple was very poor, and very indepen- 
dent; he was therefore not popular among some 
few of the purse-proud and ignorant of his pa- 
rishioners. Mr. Graham had always liked the 
frank simplicity of the young curate, and he 
welcomed him*with much pleasure. He begged 
to be left alone with Mr. Temple. When Maria 
returned to her fatlier’s apartment, Mr. Temple 
was gone, but the sick man seemed more down- 
cast and thoughtful than he had ever been be- 
fore. Maria heard him once or twice sigh hea- 
vily, and he spoke to her in so desponding a 
way, that at last she went to her own apartment 
and wept bitterly. It happened the next day 
that she saw Mrs. Andrews, and in reply to her 
inquiries after her father, she mentioned the 
state of his spirits. He ajjpeared, she said, like 
one who had received some very distressing in- 
telligence; but when she had questioned him on 
the subject, he had assured her that his mind 
was not so disturbed as she imagined. “Indeed, 
no one had been with him but Mr. Temple.*^ 
“And who in the world would you have had, 
my dear Maria said the old lady, with a look 
full of meaning. “Pm sure I don’t wonder at 
his being in low spirits if that young man has 
been with him. I know this, that he came to 
see me during a very serious attack which very 
C 


26 


Is this Religion ? 


nearly carried me off last year, and talked to 
me in such a manner, with that gentle voice of 
his, that really my nerves suffered exceedingly. 
I declined seeing him again, and I should strong- 
ly advise you to contrive some way of prevent- 
ing his paying your father another visit, or you 
may have him in a terrible state oT mind. For 
my part, I detest such cant. I think I have liv- 
ed a few years longer than Mr. Temple^ nor do 
I look to him to tell me my duty!” 

Mrs. Andrews spoke like an ignorant and 
prejudiced person; hut before Maria left her, she 
had determined to see Mr. Temple, when he next 
called, and to take care that he did not see her 
father. The curate called that same evening, 
and Maria herself made an excuse, (which might 
have been called a lie) when he declared his in- 
tention of going up to her father’s chamber. — 
He seemed much disappointed; but before he took 
his leave, he put a small volume into her hands, 
which he requested her to read at times to her 
father. She had been on the watch while he 
spoke to her, and she thought that he certainly 
did sometimes speak in a very strange way. — 
She read part of his book, hut it made her so 
thoughtful, that she determined not to let her fa- 
ther see it. Mr. Graham expressed his surprise, 
as night drew on, that the young clergyman had 
not called again, and he wondered, he said, why 


Is this Religion? 


27 


a book which Mr. Temple had promised to send 
him never came. 

*^Oh ! I can read to you/’ said Maria, taking no 
notice of her father’s remark about Mr. Temple. 
‘‘Shall I read to you ?” 

“I wish you would, my love.” 

Maria did read, but perhaps she was unfortu- 
nate in her choice of a book; or she did not feel 
what she read. Her father, her uniformly kind 
father, did not seem particularly pleased; nor did 
he make a single remark after she had put down 
the book. Mr. Graham was restless and uneasy 
in his mind all that evening, and during the fol- 
lowing day he seldom spoke to any one, but be- 
came more and more disquieted, only remarking 
at times, that he was surprised such a man as 
Mr. Temple Iiad not kept his word. 

“He might have sent, if he could not come to 
me; — but perhaps he is not well.” 

“Perha]>s he is not,” repeated Maria. 

“You might send and inquire, my dear.” 

Maria did not reply; she was just quitting the 
room. He called after iier, “do you not think 
we might send, Maria ?” 

“Certainly,” she replied, and hurried down 
stairs, quite determined not to send to Mr. Tem- 
ple: but, to her annoyance, she found that the 
curate had just entered the house. “Oh! I can- 
not see him, Jenny!” she cried, in a whisper; 


Is this Religion ^ 


S8 

and gliding up a few stairs, she entered her own 
apartment. “Tell him,” she said to the ser- 
vant, “that your master is too ill and low to see 
any stranger this evening, and that I will not 
trouble him to call so often- — I can send for him 
when Mr. Graham wishes to trouble him.” Mr. 
Temple went away; and as Jenny came up stairs 
again, Maria beckoned to her. “Be sure not to 
tell your master that the curate has been here,” 
she said to Jenny in a very familiar tone, “for I 
do not know what has come to him since Mr. 
Temple was last here.” 

“La! Miss, and that’s quite true,” replied the 
ignorant girl; “and master takes on more when 
you are out of the room. That very morning I 
was on the landing, while the door was ajar, 
and I hji|n*d the curate reading such fearful 
words ! He talked of master’s sins being all like 
scarlet; and about wool: and said you could not 
bring a clean thing out of an unclean.” 

“Nonsense, nonsense!” Maria murmured to 
herself: for, not much better read in the Bible 
than the stupid servant girl, she was quite un- 
conscious that she was sneering at the words of 
God himself. 

“And then they w^ent to prayer,” Jenny con- 
tinued, “and the parson called master a helpless 
sinner; and I heard master sob as if his heart 
was broken.” 


Is this Religion? 


29 


‘^Yery well, Jenny!’’ exclaimed Miss Gra- 
ham, assuming her usual didactic tone; ‘^you 
must now see the necessity of keeping your mas- 
ter from being disturbed in such a manner again.” 

Some hours after this short conference, wlien 
Maria entered her father’s chamber, she found 
Jenny standing near the door, looking much con- 
fused, and hesitating. Mr. Graliam stopped, 
for he had been speaking in a loud voice to the 
servant, as his daughter appeared. He looked 
at his daughter, and then at the servant girl; and 
he observed a glance pass between them. ‘‘You 
may go,” he said to the girl; and Jenny hastened 
out of the room. He looked in his daughter’s 
face sorrowfully, and yet sternly; and said, 
“Maria, why have you done this ?” 

“Done what ?” she exclaimed, astonished. 

“Don’t interrupt me, child,” he said: 
know what you have done. I suspected some- 
thing of the sort, and I am now convinced by 
the confusion, and (I am sorry to say it) the lies 
of that girl, she has been told to keep back the 
truth; and by whom, Maria? You can answer 
that — you saw me wretched — you knew that I 
earnestly desired to see him, and you have kept 
back Mr. Temple. You have sent him away — 
you have been helping to ruin your father’s 
soul. When the doctor came to attend to my 
body’s health, you could let him come up; but you 


30 


Is this Iteligion? 


care not to let iny soul perish. Is not it so? — 
Do you expect I shall ever leave this bed again 
till they carry out my body to bury it ? Can you 
tell me where to find comfort ? I tell you plain- 
ly, that I find no comfort even in you, my poor 
child, dearly as I love you; and certainly not in 
my money: no, not in any thing upon the face of 
the earth. I have been looking higher lately; 
gropingy I should say, for I’m almost in the dark. 
I wish some one to come and tell me the plain 
truth, as it is in God’s Bible; for I’m but a poor 
Bible scholar.” 

Maria did not answer a word, but she covered 
her face with her hands, and trembled from 
head to foot. 

“Tell me, Maria,” he continued after a short 
pause: “come nearer to me, child, and tell me 
what reason you had for sending Mr. Temple 
away ?” 

Maria scarcely knew what to say, for she was 
apt, as many of us are, to act without thought. 
She murmured something about her father’s spi- 
rits, and her fears that Mr. Temple had been 
alarming him as to the state of his soul. She knew 
that he had spoken in a very strange manner to 
other persons (she said “persons,” though Mrs. 
Andrews was the only person she could have 
mentioned. ) He was certainly very mild, in his 
usual manner, but— 


Js this Religion ? 


31 


‘^You have said enough, Maria!’^ exclaimed 
her father. see tliat the best excuse which I 
can make for you is, that you have been cruelly 
thoughtless. How unjust ignorance and preju- 
dice can make us! But allow me to remind you, 
tliat I am the best judge on this subject. I am in 
low spirits. I have many fears about my salva- 
tion, and these fears have worn a more distinct 
reality since 1 have conversed w ith Mr. Temple. 
He told me much to alarm me; but he told me 
what I felt to be the plain truth; and he told me 
in the kindest manner, speaking as a person sub- 
ject to the same fears. Nor did he speak to me 
alone of the justice of the God whom I had offend- 
ed. He told me of the mercies of the Saviour who 
had died for me. He only showed me my lost 
state, that he might teach me to prize that peace 
which the world cannot give; and to seek it in the 
right way.’’ 

<‘But, my dear father,” replied Maria, <^sure- 
ly he could not say you were in a lost state? I 
really cannot imagine what sins he could find in 
you. You have lived a long life, and you have 
been universally respected. You have been a 
good husband — the kindest of fathers— an excel- 
lent master — a friendly neighbour — a loyal sub- 
ject: you have been a regular attendant at 
church — you have been very kind to the poor — 
you are no drunkard ” 


32 


Is this Religion 9 


‘^Stop!’^ cried her father, who had several times 
been about to interrupt her. ‘^Let me hear no 
more of this, Maria, unless you w ould be cruel 
enough to put the w^ords of the impious Pharisee 
into my mouth, and say for me, ‘I thank God I 
am not as other men are: I fast twice in the week, 
I give alms of all that I possess.’ — A death-hed is 
not quite the place upon w hich a man should make 
out the list of his poor virtues among his fellow s. 
You had better ask me how long they shall make 
my coffin. — You had better fall down on your knees 
and pray for my soul with me. No, no, my poor 
child! I do not mean to be harsh w ith yoiq hut tell 
me, if you can, whether this character among men 
will save me in heaven ?” 

Maria replied, that she could not see any rea- 
son why he should fear: such a character as his 
must be more pleasing to God than that of a wick- 
ed person. 

<‘It may be so — I doubt not but it is, my child; 
but answer me this question? What religion do 
you profess ?” 

Christianity,” she replied. 

<<And what is Christianity ?” 

<^The religion of Jesus Christ.” 

<‘Very well — you are called a Cliristian. You 
would doubtless be offended if any one told you 
that you were a heathen ?” 

Maria owned that she should. 


58 


Is this Religion ? 

‘•But might not a lieathen possess all the vir- 
tues which you have declared belong to my charac- 
ter ? And is not something more required of a 
Christian ? Mr. Temple repeated to me a few 
very striking words: *‘If a man have not the 
spirit of Christ, he is none of his.’ The name 
alone will not save us. You imagine, perhaps, 
that Mr. Temple told me abruptly that I was a 
great sinner; and that I was in a lost state. We 
hear of ministers who terrify their hearers with 
unnecessary horrors. Mr. Temple is not one of 
them. He did not make a cry out about my be- 
ing a sinner; but, in the simplest and mildest 
way, he proved to me that I was one. He allow- 
ed that the least moral action would meet with its 
reward; but he said that the nature of the reward 
would be according to the nature of the principle 
on which the action was performed. Hf a man 
does well to please himself and his fellow-men,’ 
he said, ‘he will not lose his reward; but his prin- 
ciple was earthly, and he will receiv e his reward 
on earth: he will be respected, or loved, or ad- 
mired, among his fellow-men: but if, although he 
is living in a Christian land, and calling himself a 
good Christian, he has not had a thought to please 
God by his good conduct, how can he hope tiiat 
God will reward him in heaven ?’ He then re- 


Romans, ch, 8, V. 9. 


34 


Is this Religion ? 


iTiinded me that the commandment which Jesu« 
Christ himself has called the first and great com- 
mandment, is to *<‘love the Lord our God with 
all the heart, and with all the soul, and with all 
the strength, and with all the mind.’’ And he 
made me feel, when he turned my thoughts hack 
upon my past life, that I had indeed utterly disre- 
garded this first and greatest of God’s command- 
ments. He proved to me, that although there 
could be no holiness without morality, yet there 
might be much morality without any holiness^ and 
he added these words of the Apostle of Christ: 
‘Without holiness no man shall see the Lord.’ 
Alas! I had not a word to say, except to cry out, 
‘what shall I do to be saved ?’ I have had more 
than my reward among my fellow-men; for I be- 
lieve I am respected and esteemed. I think I 
shall die regretted by those around me; but 1 have 
only now learnt that the Christian must have laid 
up his treasure in heaven, or his heart cannot be 
there also. My treasure and my heart have been 
both below, upon earth; I have only now begun to 
long after heaven. Mr. Temple did not leave 
me thus wretched. He felt for my distress, and 
he entreated me to seek for pardon by the only 
way through which it is given to man, through 
Jesus Christ, who says of himself, am the 


* Luke, 10th chap. 27th verse. 


35 


Is this Religion ? 

w ay and the truth and the life, and nomancoincth 
unto the Father but by me/ He pointed out to 
me that Saviour dying upon the cross for all sin- 
ners who would turn and be saved; and he said 
that the spirit of God was given to all who sought 
him, to enable them to become not only holy on 
earth, but happy in heaven. He promised to come 
to me again; and you, my child, have forbidden 
him.’’ 

Some characters would have been cut to the 
heart, not only at hearing such solemn reproach- 
es from the lips of a dying father, but by the con- 
sciousness that those reproaches w ere deserved; 
and for a short time Maria was overwhelmed with 
shame and contrition, and determined to confess 
her meanness to Mr. Temple, and implore his 
forgiveness and advice: but when she left her fa- 
ther’s chamber, the serious impressions she had 
received were soon effaced from her heart; and 
she began to feel that it would be very unpleasant 
to expose herself by such ^a needless confession.’ 
She wrote, however, a very polite note to Mr. 
Temple, and requested him to continue his kind 
attentions to her father; and she dwelt in very 
flattering language on the satisfaction, the comfort 
w hich her father had experienced from his instruc- 


14th chjip. 6th rerse. 


36 


Is this Religion ? 


tioiis, and subscribed lierself, diis most grateful 
and respectful servant.’ 

“And now,” she thought within herself, “I 
might as well just caution my father against say- 
ing that I have in any way prevented his seeing 
so much as he wished of M r. Temple.” She stole ^ 
up lightly to her father’s chamber, and, drawing 
aside the closed curtains, was beginning to speak, 
when suddenly her soft and guarded words were 
turned to shrieks. — Her father was dead. The 
exertion and agitation of his late interview with 
Maria had proved too much for his sinking 
strength: and Jenny (whom his daughter had sum- 
moned to supply her place during her short ab- 
sence) having, as she afterwards expressed her- 
self, just stepped out before Maria entered, he had 
expired alone and unsupported. 

Mr. Temple came, but now attendance was in- 
deed useless. Maria was in too distracted a state 
to notice any one« 


CHAPTER III. 


After her father’s death, Maria removed to 
the Cottage-farm. Mr. Graham had left his 
business, and his house in , with a thou- 

sand pounds, to his nephew, Luke Allan. Ma- 
ria came into the possession of eighty thousand 
pounds. She cared not then, however, for her 
money, but shut herself up, and gave way in 
an extravagant manner to grief. The fatigue 
which she had undergone during her father’s ill- 
ness, and her neglect of her health, had reduced 
her to a very weak state. Her friends begged 
her to take medical advice, and her physician 
advised change of air. He thought the mild and 
refreshing climate of the South Devon coast 
would be particularly beneficial. 

Maria replied, in a rather peevish manner, 
that she could not bear to leave home. She did 
not think change of air could do her good. 

The physician declared, that he knew a lady 
who was then residing at Sidmouth — his wife 
had just received a letter from her, in which she 
had expressed herself delighted with the place. 
Miss Graham might have heai’d of her — Mrs. 
Hunter Bond! 

D 


38 


Is this Religion? 


Maria raised her head like one suddenly re- 
vived. ‘‘Oh! yes, she was slightly acquainted 
with Mrs. Hunter Bond, and a very charming 
woman she was! she had met her frequently 
at Mrs. Andrews’.” 

Maria set off for Sidmouth. In her way 
through London, she remained for a few weeks 
at the house of her friend. Miss Honey wood — 
"While there, she provided herself with what 
Miss Honey wood termed “a suitable equipage.” 

Miss Graham had been some time at Sid- 
mouth, without having seen or heard any thing 
of Mrs. Hunter Bond. At last she happened to 
meet her in a shop at Exeter^ and from that time 
they became intimate friends. Miss Graham 
had been for some time anxiously seeking for 
some person to reside with her as a companion 
and chaperon. She had been disappointed in a 
lady whom Miss Honeywood had half promised 
would follow her to Sidmoutlq and she thought 
that perhaps Mrs. Hunter Bond might know of 
some person who could find her society suffi- 
ciently agreeable to become her companion. — 
But what was her surprise! her delight! when 
Mrs. Hunter Bond (with a grace peculiarly her 
own) condescended to say, that she preferred the 
society of Miss Graham to that of most persons 
whose friendship she valued; that she was her- 
self wearied of her lonely life; in fact, she made 


Is this Religion? 


39 


Maria believe that she was conferring a great 
favour, when she was suiting her own conveni- 
ence, and became herself the companion and cha- 
peron of Miss Graliam. 

Tlie two ladies found tlie climate of Sidmouth 
agree so well with tiiem, that, by Iier friend’s 
advice, Miss Graham parted with the' Cottage- 
farm, and purchased a beautiful cottage there.— ^ 
Maria, who began to visit among persons of 
much higlier rank than her own, was heartily 

glad to get away from , and her relations 

there. Slie found Mrs. Hunter Bond not quite 
so perfect as she had imagined; but still she had 
no great reason to repent of her choice; for her 
new friend, though rather sarcastic, and not a 
little selfish, was too pleased with her situation 
to make herself an unpleasant companion. 

The events of Maria’s life for the next two 
years are too uninteresting to he dwelt upon. — 
She passed her time either at Sidmouth, or in 
London, and perfected herself considerably in 
her various accomplishments under the first mas- 
ters; so that she soon spoke many of the modern 
languages fluently; played and sung in the first 
style; and drew admirably. Her beauty and ac- 
quirements were admired in some of the liigliest 
circles in London; and Maria and her friend 
managed so well, that when the question was 
asked. ‘-Miss Gi^aham! who is she?” the an- 


40 Is this Religion? 

swer generally was, <‘Her family are originally 
Scotch: her father, or grandfather, was in the 
church.’’ She had many suitoi's; but Mrs. 
Hunter Bond, unwilling to leave so agreeable a 
home, talked to her so effectively of the inter- 
ested views which young men often had, and of 
her own fears lest her dear Miss Graham’s for- 
tune should be the prize most sought after; and 
every now and then dropped hints in which the 
late Mr. Hunter Bond’s name was mentioned, 
and her own wretchedness as a wife was glanced 
at: that Maria assured herself she had found a 
real friend, and she willingly followed that 
friend’s advice. Perhaps the secret of this rea- 
diness to refuse the offers which she received, (a 
secret unknown to Maria herself,) was, that she 
had hitherto remained both heart and fancy free. 

It was at the commencement of the third sea- 
son which Maria passed in London, that she 
was taken seriously ill. Since her father’s death, 
her health had never been strong; and she had 
had occasional fits of low spirits, fi^om which all 
the gaiety of her favourite friend could scarcely 
rouse her. The truth was, that Maria could not 
sometimes help feeling that she was not going 
on quite in the right way. She loved the world 
and the things of the world; but she could not 
forget her father’s dying admonitions. She 
could not feel altogether at her ease, while she 


41 


Is this Meligion 

knew her conduct to be in some respects very 
Iieartless; shunning, as she did, her own near 
relations, whose only crime was tlieir vulgarity 
of manners and station. She was in that state 
of mind when a warning would not have come 
unfelt or unheeded. 

The physician who attended Maria, insisted 
on her giving up ail parties; and told her, tliat 
if she expected to recover, she must rise and 
retire to rest at very early hours. Being thus 
Ibrced to live in a rational way, she began to re- 
flect more than she had ever done. She learnt 
to set a proper value on the attentions of Iier 
fasliionable friends, w ho soon appeared to forget 
licr w hen her doors were no longer thrown open 
to them, and splendid dinners, and concerts, and 
balls provided for their entertainment. * 

As the spring advanced, Maria longed for the 
fresh air and quiet of the country. She tlierefore 
hired a small villa within a few^ miles of London, 
that slie might be still under the care of her fa- 
vourite physician. Mrs. Hunter Bond seemed 
now a really kind friend; and fond as she was of 
amusements, she cheerfully gave them up, and 
went w ith her friend. 

It happened that the minister of tlie parish in 
which Maria resided was a powerful preacher. 
He was certainly injudicious in the doctrines he 
brought forward; but he was thoroughly in earn- 
D 2 


4'2 


Is this Religion ? 


est. There was excitement in his preaching; and 
although Maria, who knew little or nothing of 
the peculiar doctrines of Christianity, found niucli 
fault witli his sermons, she never failed to attend 
them. Mrs. Hunter Bond was at first extreme- 
ly affected by his preaching. Her cambric hand- 
kerchief was frequently raised to her eyes, and 
her eau-dc-luce to her nose — ^but she was all 
smiles and delight as soon as the service was 
over, and ready to congratulate herself and others 
on having heard <‘so charming a discourse!’’ 
She looked upon a preacher as a fine actor, and 
her feelings were all alive to his eloquence; but she 
did not seem to have an idea that a word in his 
sermon could be applied to her own case. She 
verified in herself that remark of Beza, that Hhey 
who have their minds fixed on earthly things arc 
utterly blind to heavenly things, though they be 
never so plainly set forth to them.’ At last, 
however, she grew tired of ‘‘such charming dis- 
courses,” and gladly availed herself of any ex- 
cuse not to accompany Miss Graham to church. 

One Sunday, Maria turned to her friend, as 
they were sitting together at luncheon after morn- 
ing service, and said: “Do you not think, as the 
weather is so fine, we might walk to church this 
afternoon? I think it right to give the horses 
and servants as much rest as I can on the Sab- 
bath.” 


Is this Religion? 


43 


‘^Certainly, my dear;’’ replied Mrs. Hunter 
Jlond^ <‘the weather is delightfully fine, and I 
will walk with you, if you please; but before you 
spoke, I had dedicated this afternoon to writing a 
few letters. I never can find time to write dur- 
ing the week; and on Sundays the time hangs so 
heavily on one’s hands, that I am glad to avail 
myself of an opportunity.” 

^‘But,” replied Maria, ^^yoii have forgotten 
that Mr. Godfrey preached only the first part of 
his sermon this morning; he will give the con- 
clusion in the afternoon: you would not like to 
miss it ?” 

^‘Indeed I should have no objection; for, to tell 
you the truth, I did not attend much to the first 
part. I get rather tired of Mr. Godfrey’s fine 
harangues.” 

‘‘1 think him often severe,” said Maria; ^‘but 
it seems to me impossible not to attend to him. 
He really searches the heart with such wonderful 
powTT, that I am sometimes afraid he is address- 
ing himself only to me; and I dare not look up, 
lest I should find all eyes fixed upon me.” 

<‘Dear! how strange! Depend on it, my love! 
the man never dreams of being personal to you; 
indeed if he did, he would be excessively imperti- 
nent. If I were to suspect him of taking such a 
liberty with me, I w ould not go near his church; 
for I cannot endure such abominable cant. ” 


44 


Is this Religion? 

<<But I do not think it fair to accuse Mr. God- 
frey of cant,” replied Maria. ‘‘He sets before 
us the doctrines of the scriptures, and supports 
all he asserts by some text from the word of 
God.” 

“My dear Maria,” interrupted her friend, 
rising hastily, “pray don’t go on; you are really 
growing quite methodistical; but, tell me, shall I 
walk with you to church or not, this afternoon?” 

“Oil! no; pray write your letters,” Maria re- 
plied, coolly. “William will carry my books, 
and walk behind me: I need no other attend- 
ance.” 

She was soon such an attentive hearer of Mr. 
Godfrey, that her friend became at last seriously 
alarmed lest his preaching might induce Maria, 
who was now recovering her health, to give up 
her follies and gaieties altogether; and she saw the 
necessity of continually using all her powers of 
argument against the delusions (as she called 
them) to which her friend was yielding: but Mrs. 
Hunter Bond’s pow ers of argument w ere wmnder- 
ously feeble, and* their disputes, instead of con- 
vincing Maria, rather rooted them both (as will 
be often the case in such disputes) more thorough- 
ly in their owm opinions. Maria, however, w as 
often surprised to find herself opposing sentiments 
which she would once have declared as her ow n. 
These disputes soon began to estrange the friends^ 


Is this Religion ? 


45 


oil other points; for Maria’s temper was not im* 
proved by her religions knowledge. She did not 
receive the word of God with singleness of pur- 
pose, and witli an honest and good heart. She 
did not search and examine her own heart and 
life, to see if the fruits of the spirit were spring- 
ing up there; but she began to think much of ex- 
ternals, and to measure herself by others, and to 
compare herself with others; and to thank God in 
her heart that she was not as some others, Mrs. 
Hunter Bond among the number. She had some 
light, but it only served to lead her farther 
astray. 

When Mrs. Hunter Bond saw that such were 
the effects of what Maria called **preuching the 
Gospel,** she sneered in her heart at all real re- 
ligion; for she was so thoughtless, and so ignor- 
ant, as to confound all professors of the gospel 
together. She thought, and she was right, that 
Maria had become exceedingly disagreeable; and 
as she had been generally good-humoured and 
obliging before what Maria called “/irr conver- 
sion,** she set down the change to what Maria 
called ^^evangelical truth*** Though Maria had 
become so unlike the character to which she pre- 
tended, the fault was certainly not so much in the 
sower, nor in the seed sown; but, as I said before 
in the soil of her own heart. Mr. Godfrey would 
have grieved sincerely had he seen the w^ay iu 


46 


Is this Religion^ 

which Maria perverted the instruction she re- 
ceived. 

The summer was far advanced, when Mrs. 
Hunter Bond, who had grown heartily disgusted 
with Maria’s new opinions and ways, accepted 
an invitation from a friend at Cheltenham, and 
set out on her journey, secretly determined not to 
return to her “dear friend,” as she still called 
her. Maria wept a little at her departure, but 
was heartily glad, when shortly after she receiv- 
ed a letter to say that, “other engagements pre- 
vented Mrs. Hunter Bond from again taking up 
her residence with Miss Graham.” Maria felt 
that she had no farther need of her society. She 
was no longer so young as absolutely to need a 
chaperon; and she had fully determined to give 
up the fashionable world: besides, she was too 
well known as an heiress, and as one who had 
moved in high society, to need any farther intro- 
duction. And now that Maria found herself un- 
incumbered by a worldly and fashionable com- 
panion, she changed the ways of her establish- 
ment, and made a point of attending the meeting 
of every sort of religious society wtthin twenty 
miles of her residence. But notwithstanding the 
high profession she began to hold, little change 
had been made in her heart. “That religion 
promises best, which begins with the conscience, 
and creates a watchfulness over the heart and 


Is this Religion? 


4r 


tongue; a dread and hatred of hypocrisy, and all 
sin; and a love of peace and universal holiness. 
Such a state of Iieart prepares the way for tlic 
proper understanding and reception of divine 
truths; and they who thus receive, will adoi*n the 
doctrine of God our Saviour: He will peculiarly 
regard them, and attend to their prayers.”* 
Such, however, was not Maria’s religion: it began 
in externals; and had all the cant, with little of 
the spirit of Christianity. True religion, like 
the lifeblood, has its grand reservoir in the 
heart, whence it flows throughout the whole 
frame, even to its farthest extremities; and is 
ever in motion, flowing from, and returning 
thither; giving life and strength, freshness and 
beauty, to the whole man. We reverence even 
the peculiarities of true religion: and when a 
humble and contrite heart, accustomed to watch 
over its every feeling with severe strictness, ex- 
tends that strictness even to indifferent things, 
we respect what perhaps we could not imitate. 
But there is another, a counterfeit religion, cur- 
rent in these days, winch is ever busied, not a- 
bout its own purity, but in pronouncing judgment 
upon the opinions and the practice of others, and 
we cannot respect the peculiarities which accom- 
pany it; inasmuch as they are but the natural 


» Scott. 


48 


Is this Religien ? 


fruits of a deceived heart, and a carnal mind in a 
saintly disguise. The preaching of Mr. Godfrey 
was soon discovered to be too cold — too tame— 
not spiritual enough for Maria; and as the term 
for which she had engaged her house expired, she 
determined to leave the neighbourliood. 

‘^Now that is the sort of person,” she said to 
an acquaintance with whom she had attended a 
public meeting where a Mr. Cramp had made a 
long and most extraordinary harangue, ‘‘that 
Mr. Cramp is the sort of minister 1 should wish 
to sit under.” 

Mr. Cramp was then officiating minister in a 
beautiful village in Hampshire; and a few days 
after that conversation, Maria’s new acquaint- 
ance showed her an advertisement of an estate, 
( ‘ ‘the very place she ought to have,”) in the parish 
where Mr. Cramp preached. Maria went to 
look at the estate — was delighted with the house, 
and every thing about it; and soon after became 
its possessor. 

Within a few miles of Miss Graham’s estate 
was Kirkdale Manor, the old family seat of Sir 
George Montagu, in which he resided with his 
mother, Lady Elizabeth Montagu. Sir George 
was about thirty years of age, a quiet, reserved 
character, supposed to be almost entirely under 
the control of his mother. Lady Elizabeth w^as 
said to be very strict and peculiar in her religious 


49 


Is this Religion? 

opinions; and she lived much secluded from the 
world. 

Miss Graham was a constant attendant on Mr. 
Cramp’s ministry; and not long after her arrival 
in his parish, he waited upon her to request her 
to become joint patroness with Lady Elizabeth 
Montague, of a society he was about to establish 
in the neighbourhood. This proposal led to a 
slight acquaintance with Lady Elizabeth. She 
was pleased with the character of Miss Graham, 
as given by Mr. Cramp; and when the two ladies 
attended the first meeting of the society, Lady 
Elizabeth, who was accompanied by her son, in- 
troduced the young baronet to Maria. 

Sir George and his mother had been looking 
out, the one for a wife, the other for a daugh- 
ter-in-law, for some years; hut liitherto they had 
been unable to agree in their choice. At length, 
the- very person had appeared: at least. Sir George 
thought so; and though his mother raised some 
objections, and did not find Miss Graham so very 
irresistible, she at length gave a sort of negative 
consent, and proposals of marriage were made in 
due form. Maria liked Sir George very much, 
and liked the connexion still better; and soon after 
became Lady Montague. When Maria entered 
the magnificent hall of Kirkdale Manor as its 
mistress, and looked round on the old portraits 
of her husband’s ancestors, she felt more deeply 
E 


50 


Is this Religion ? 

than she had ever done, that her own low birth 
and vulgar connexions were an annoyance and 
discredit to her, and she determined very re- 
solutely to prevent their attracting tlie notice of 
her husband, or his family. She had quieted her 
conscience as well as she could, before her mar- 
riage, by presenting her cousin and former friend, 
Bessy Allan, with a sum of money sufficient to 
secure a moderate annuity both to her mother and 
herself. 

And now, my reader, if you have found any en- 
tertainment from what you have already read of 
this common-place history, confess that you can 
feel no interest in so heartless a character as 
Maria. I must own that she is no favourite of 
mine^ yet many such persons have I heard called 
<‘very charming women.” In pity to your pa- 
tience, I will not take you into the society of Kirk- 
dale Manor, now Lady Elizabeth has retired to 
her jointure house, Hurstwood, in Sussex. 


CHAriER IV. 


It was not till four years after their marriage, 
that Lady Montague presented her husband with a 
son, greatly to the delight of the Lady Elizabeth, 
who stood as sponsor to the child, and named him 
Augustine — a name which had been from time 
immemorial in her own family. Of this boy I 
am about to speak. 

At an early age, Augustine endeared himself 
in a peculiar manner to all who knew him. His 
disposition was remarkably fine. He was sel- 
dom or ever seen out of temper; and there was a 
natural courteousness about him which rendered 
his manners very attractive. He was, at the 
same time, free from all efieminacy of character, 
frank and open as the day, and as manly as he 
was gentle. Lady Montague herself was for 
many years his chief teacher, and she found in 
him an affectionate willingness w hich encouraged 
her in her w ork. She often used to rejoice w hen 
she thought upon his w onderful progress in Scrip- 
ture-knowledge; and she considered him, she said, 
as a vessel chosen early for the service of the 
Lord. Before he was twelve yeai-s of age, he 
had read tlie Scriptures several times tiirough; he 


52 Is this Religion if 

could pray extempore; and sing numberless hymns 
with a voice, the sweetness of which had seldom 
been rivalled. His parents had never allow ed 
their son to leave home. Mr. Cramp became his 
tutor, and took up his residence in the house; and 
was, perhaps, one of the most unfit persons that 
could have been chosen for the purpose. He w^as 
narrow-minded, and bigoted to his ow n religious 
opinions in no common degree; and those opinions 
bordered on antinomianism. He had not an idea 
of suiting his conversation to the understanding 
of a child, but would hold long and pompous 
harangues, which Augustine unconsciously ac- 
quired the habit of listening to, without attempt- 
ing to comprehend. His feelings towards Mr. 
Cramp were a strange comj)ound of dislike and 
reverence. One might almost compare them to 
those of an ignorant worshipper tow ards the idol 
he worshipped: habit taught him to bow^, where 
reason and inclination, had they been consulted, 
w'oiild have disapproved. In the pulpit, Mr. 
Cramp was stern, and had the appearance of a 
man of spare and self-denying habits; but Augus- 
tine often wondered within himself at the gross 
tastes and indulgences of his tutor when out of 
the pulpit: he would eat and drink with an im- 
moderate greediness, and his very eyes seemed to 
feast with a sort of swimming joy on the rich food 
before him. Altogether, Augustine’s home w as 


Is this Religion f 


56 

little suited to make religion captivating to a 
young and ingenuous mind. The conversation 
was continually narrowed in, to one set of sub- 
jects; and if an unfortunate stranger happened to 
introduce any remark of a more worldly charac- 
ter, he was sure to be chilled and awed into si- 
lence by the grave looks and astonishment that 
appeared around him. In company, Lady Mon- 
tague was perpetually smiling, and full of little 
anecdotes, which she repeated with much gentle 
deliglit; but in their domestic circle, Augustine 
could not help knowing, that there was present, 
too generally, a spiri^ the fruits of which were 
not love, or joij, or peace, or long suffering, or 
gentleness, or meekness* Lady Montague did not 
show her real temper till after her marriage; or 
rather, the seeds which were there did not sprout, 
and spring up till then. The ways of thinking 
and acting in which Sir George had been educated 
were very opposite to those to which Maria was 
accustomed; and their difference of opinion ap- 
peared in the merest trifles. Neitlier of them 
had the good sense, or even the good policy, to 
give way in little things. Maria talked of her 
principles, where she would liave been acting like 
a Christian wife in yielding to her husband’s 
wishes: and hence it was, that with all their re- 
ligious knowledge, they were a less united couple 
than many of their worldly neighbours, who had 
E 2 


54 


Is this Heligion ? 


found out the truth of the remark, that, ^ Critics 
make the sum of human things.’’ Gradually, 
however, the indolence of Sir George’s natural 
disposition began to yield to the ever restless 
spirit of his lady, and he sunk doAvn into a very 
quiet, heavy being. Nay, his sense of hearing ac- 
quired an obtuseness to her cutting remarks, and 
he literally grew fat upon thenq and could remain 
calm and unmoved, and even untouched, in the 
full fire of her small shot. 

Augustine was nearly nineteen when he was 
sent to Trinity College, Cambridge. In those 
days, a more innocent and unsuspecting character 
had been seldom known at his age. His mother 
and his tutor heaped precept upon precept when 
they parted from him; but the poor boy tried in 
vain to recollect what they had said. His father’s 
words were few; but Augustine had never seen 
him so grave, and so affectionate. 

A distant relation to Sir George Montague, a 
Mr. Bryan, a steady, well-principled young man, 
about a year older than Augustine, who had been 
at college nearly two years, was now his compan- 
ion to Cambridge. 

Almost the whole of the first night which he 
passed at the university, Augustine lay awake in 
a fever of tumultuous thought. He had entered 
the world at last in some manner his own master; 
and who in his situation could have slept : 


55 


Is this Religion? 

He had been asleep scarcely three hours, when 
his bed-room door was flung open, and his rela- 
tion, Mr. Bryan, entered the room. 

‘‘What! in bed^ asleep at this time of day!’’ 
he shouted. “Is this your early rising ? Why, 
my good fellow, do get up, and come to breakfast. 
I’ve asked a friend or two to meet you. Well i” 
he called out, after waiting a short time with 
much impatience in Augustine’s sitting-room, “I 
tell you what. I’ll go to my rooms, for the men 
will be waiting, and you can follow^ but, I say! 
come as soon as you can, and don’t be more fresh 
than you can help.” 

It happened, however, that Augustine was in 
the cant language of Cambridge, remarkably 
fresh; and his companions often stared and smiled 
at the simplicity of his notions on most of the sub- 
jects discussed. That same morning, the cards 
of some of his new acquaintances were left at his 
rooms; and from one of them, a few days after, he 
received an invitation to drink wine with him, 
after dinner, in hall. 

Lady Montague had charged her son to be very 
particular in choosing his associates; “to become 
acquainted,” she said, “with none but decided 
characters.” 

He was debating whether he ought to accept the 
invitation he had received, when Mr. Bryan en- 
tered his rooms. 


56 Is this Religion ? 

<<Have you had an invitation to wine with Tra- 
cey?’^ he said. 

“Yes; here it is,” readied Augustine: “but who 
is Tracey ?” 

“What! don’t you know Tracey? His father is 
member for Petersfield, and a friend of your fa- 
ther. Lady Emily, his mother, is a very nice 
woman; very pious and charitable, and all that.” 

“But are yon going, James?” 

“To be sure I am. Shall I come to your rooms, 
after hall, in my way for you?” 

The cousins went together after hall. 

Augustine had no sooner flung down his cap and 
gown, and received a hearty shake of the hand 
from Tracey, than he was formally introduced to 
what seemed at first to him a formidable set; 
“Lord William Lucas ! Mr. Martin ! Mr. Orm ! 
Mr. Harrison! Mr. Fanshaw! Sir Tliomas 
Power ! Mr. Villiers !” “Which wine do you 
drink ?” said Tracey, in a very courteous tone; 
to which question Augustine replied not very au- 
dibly, and filled his glass with port, so full that 
the wine flowed over. He felt more confused; and 
was going to make some remark about his awk- 
wardness, but he perceived that Tracey was al- 
ready ill earnest conversation with Lord William 
Lucas. 

“I’d thank you to pass thqbottle, sir,” exclaim- 
ed Mr. Harrison, in a dry and dignified manner, 


Is this Religion ? 


57 


speaking with his teeth shut, and waking the 
Ires Inn an from a reverie into which he had fallen. 

Augustine coloured deeply, and pushed forward 
the decanters, which were all standing in dread 
array before him. He then sat in silence for 
for some time, listening to the conversation of 
those around him. Now and then a few words 
were dropped to him by Tracey, or by Mr. Vil- 
liers, who sat next to him, to which he replied 
almost in monosyllables. 

“I must trouble you to pass the wine again, 
sir,” said Mr. Harrison: “but you don’t fill your 
own glass. Don’t you drink, sir?” 

Augustine poured some wine into his glass. 

“Excuse me, sir, but no heeltaps; we always 
drink off heeltaps here.” 

“I bad rather not drink any more,” replied 
Augustine, in a low voice. 

“O, pray do not drink more than you like,” 
cried Tracey, who had observed the confusion of 
his young guest. “By the bye, Vil liers,” he 
continued, addressing himself to Augustine’s 
neighbour, “I’ve not seen you since your return 
from Spain. Tell me about your tour, at least 
tell me if my views are correct:” and rising up, 
he took a portfolio from his bookcase, and gave 
it into Villiers’ hand. “I do not know if you 
have been abroad, Mr. Montague; but if you have 


5B is this Religioni^ 

not, you will perhaj>s like to look over those 
drawings.” 

In a few minutes Augustine had forgotten his 
bashfulness, and was engaged in a very agree- 
able conversation with Mr. Yilliers. Tracey 
was an elegant trifler, witli a few good principles 
and many good feelings. His rooms were furnish- 
ed j*ather in the style of a lady’s boudoir than a 
scliolar’s study. Splendid pictures, busts, and 
Grecian lamps; riclily bound books, and exotic 
plants, distracted the sight. He read little, gave 
very pleasant parties, and was in a good set. His 
chief study seemed to be how to please, and to 
make himself popular with all who knew him; 
and he was generally successful. The religious 
party liked him; for he was accustomed, when at 
home, to associate with them; and he w as to be 
met, occasionally, at the rooms of a few excellent 
and serious characters, and attended Trinity 
Church on Thursday evenings. The sporting 
party liked him; for he kept two fine horses, rode 
excessively well, (sometimes as far as New mark- 
et,) was a good shot, and w as known to produce, 
though seldom, a pair of boxing-gloves from the 
lower cupboard of his gay bookcase! — He had 
even been seen at J ackson’s rooms. Tlie literary 
party liked Iiim; for he w as known to be idle, 
but not stupid: his Latin verses were highly ap- 
pixived, and he had been asked to write a tripos, 


59 


Is this Religion^ 

but had refused. The idlers liked him: they were 
sure to do so, for he was one of them. He man- 
aged to trim well among all parties; and that 
evening he managed to please Augustine. <‘Yoii 
will not go,” he said to him, as some of the com- 
pany rose up to hasten to chapel, the bell of 
which was ringing loudly. “Do stay and pass 
the rest of the evening with me. I will order 
coffee into the study, and I will show you a large 
collection of view s in Switzerland, as you seemed 
pleased w ith those in Spain.” 

Augustine remained, and Tracey pressed Vil- 
liers, and Lord William Lucas, and Bryan, to 
remain also. Tlie rest departed; but, contrary 
to tlie custom of wine-parties (which generally 
break up for chapel,) tliey promised to meet again 
to eat oysters. Coffe and tea were served by 
Hardman* in the little study, and the select par- 
ty passed a few delightful hours till they wei-e 
interrupted by Sir Thomas Power and his friend 
Harrison. “Come, Tracey,” cried the former, 
rubbing his hands together, “let us have the oys- 
ters, and a bowl of bishop, and a quiet rubber.” 

“Oh! yes, supper will be ready immediately: 
but as to the rubber, I don’t know whom you 
will find to play.” 

“Trust me for that,” cried the young Baronet 
♦ A well-known Gyp at Trinity Colleg’e. 


60 


Is this Religion ? 


‘^Open that card-table, Tom/’ addressing Tra- 
cey’s servant, who had entered the room to set 
out the supper. ‘‘Lucas, will you play/’ 

“Oh, no* I thank you ! I hate cards.” 

“You will, Villiers ?” 

“No.” 

“Nor you, Bryan i” 

“I never play.” 

“Mr. Montague, I hope will not desert us: 
you and Tracey; with Harrison and myself, will 
just make up tlie rubber.” 

“1 don’t think you know" much about cards, 
M r. Montague !” said Tracey. 

“No, indeed, I do not; nor do I think I ever 
shall.” 

Martin, however, entered while they were 
speaking; and Tracey begged Villiers just to take 
a hand till Orm came in, who, he w as certain, 
would he happy to relieve him. “Of course I 
could not play if I would,” whispered Tracey 
(leaning, as he spoke to Pow er, half over tlie 
card-table); “it might seem rude to Lucas and 
Montague, w ho were never in my rooms till this 
evening.” 

Augustine heard this W"hisper, and he wondered 
within himself how a serious character, like I'ra- 
cey, could even talk of tlie possibility of his play- 
ing at cards, the mere name of w hich he had ne- 
ver heard mentioned but in terms of horror be- 


Is this Religion? 


61 


lore. The rubber was a very long one, and they 
did not sit down to supper till it was nearly elev- 
en; and then the conversation was on subjects in- 
teresting, from their ver^ novelty, to Montague. 
After supper, however, he rose up immediately t® 
depart. 

‘^Don’t go just yet,’’ cried Tracey, with a be- 
seeching look. “My Gyp w ill be here in a mo- 
ment with the bishop.” 

Montague felt that he ought to go, and said 
tjiat he must go, and w hile he w as putting on his 
hat and gow n, Villiers and Bryan rose up also. 

“Now this is too bad !” continued Tracey, and 
he gently took Augustine’s hat out of his hand. 
“I beg your pardon,” lie said, looking dow n upon 
the hat as if he had only then discovered that he 
had taken it, “but do give us the pleasure of 
your company a little longer. I sec how^ it is — 
the whole party will be broken up unless you sit 
dow 11 again. Villiers ! Bryan ! iny good fellows 1 
don’t be so gothic. I take it quite unkind in you! 
Sit down only for five minutes.” 

They looked at Montague. 

“Oh i” cried Tracey, following up their look, 
“I’m sure Montague will stay, if you will. Will 
you not, Montague ?” 

“Certainly, for five minutes,” replied Augus- 
tine, laughingly, and threw off his gown. 

Villiers and Bryan returned to their seats. — 
F 


(32 


Is this Religion? 


The five minutes passed away before the bowl of 
bishop made its appearance, and Montague soon 
forgot to think about the time. Every thing 
around looked so joyous — the lamps burned with 
such brilliant lustre — tlie very walls, with their 
gilded mouldings, seemed to shine out — nothing 
was dark or dull — the fire blazed with clear 
flames — every face was lighted up with smiles 
and animation — the bishop was excellent — noth- 
ing about the room reminded our young freshman 
that midnight was past. The card-players re- 
turned again to their table, but Montague did not 
see them rise. He was listening to Villiers, who, 
at Tracey’s re<^uest, had taken up a guitar, and 
was singing with a voice of singular power and 
richness some fine ballads that he had brought 
from Spain. Every one cried out in their admi- 
ration, as he finished singing “Todos can tar la 
ca-chu-cha,” the little song which has been since 
set by Bishop to the English words “Isabelle, 
Isabelle.” 

Augustine was delighted; he had never heard 
any but what was called sacred music before, 
much of which did little credit to the taste or the 
understanding of the singer. “Surely,” he said 
to himself, “there cannot be any thing sinful in 
listening to such sweet sounds as those.” 

Bryan looked as delighted as himself; and soon 
after asked Villiers if he could sing the “Ranz 
des vaches.” 


Is this Religion? 


63 


* 

Villiers sung the real simple air with as much 
feeling and pathos as if he had been a Swiss goa- 
therd longing for his native mountains; and then 
he sung Haydn’s noble song of “The Rhine.” — 
Villiers laid down the guitar; but Lord William 
asked for one more song, an English song. — 
“Very well, if you wish it, was the answer of the 
good-tempered singer; “but I must sing no more 
after that.” He sung, with expression that went 
to the heart, that deeply affecting song of Lord 
Byron’s, with Dr. Whitfield’s music, 

“When we two parted. 

In silence and tears;” 

and Augustine forgot every thing else but the 
song while he w^as singing. * 

Every one but the four card-players rose up 
as soon as the song w as over. Bryan took out 
his w atch, and Montague saw, w ith astonishment 
that it -w as past tw o o’clock. He felt perfectly 
confounded, and scarcely knew what he replied 
when spoken to. He merely remembered that he 
saw a look of unaffected weariness on Tracey’s 
face, as he slirugged his shoulders and turned a 
sidelong glance on the inveterate whist-players. 

Villiers, on parting with Montague, invited him 
to breakfast the next morning. Augustine hesi- 
tated. “You are not engaged ?” he said. 

“Oh! no.” 

“Very well, then, you will come; I shall ex 
pcct you at ten.” 


64 


Is this Religion 


He did not wait for an answer; but sliaking^ 
Montague warmly by the hand, they partcvl. 

When Augustine entered his own room, he 
threw himself down on the sofa, heartily vexed 
with himself. He felt as if he had been commit- 
ting a heinous crime: but he could not think — his 
ideas were all confused. It was his custom to 
read a chapter in his Greek Testament every 
night before he went to bed, and he took up the 
book as usual; but the letters sw am before his 
eyes, and he dropped asleep before he had read a 
verse. The loud chimes of St. Mary’s clock, 
striking three, aroused him. He gave up all 
thought of reading, and kneeled dowm to pray; 
but again found himself falling asleep. He rose 
up, made an effort to put out his candle safely, 
and in a few minutes was in bed, dreaming that 
he saw his mother and Mr. Cramp sitting at a 
card-table, with a bowl of bishop before them: 
the former shuffling the cards, w bile his tutor fill- 
ed two large tumblers w ith the streaming wine. 
His father w as sitting with a guitar in his hand 
singing very affectedly. Suddenly they all turn- 
ed to him with frowning faces; and his mother 
and tutor began to upbraid him loudly with some 
terrible sin. He asked in vain for an explanation, 
till Mr. Cramp at last fished up his hymn-book 
from the bottom of the bowl. 

Augustine lay in a restless state all the night. 


65 


Is this Religion? 

for he liacl never drank so much wine in his life 
before. He woke early, and threw open his win- 
dow to breathe more freely. All the time he was 
dressing he felt very wretched, and was not at all 
satisfied till he had written to refuse breakfasting 
with Villiers. He then hastened to his college 
lectures, and afterwards, having sported his door, 
sat down to read steadily till dinner-time. 

After dinner Augustine wrote a long letter to 
his mother, in which, without mentioning the 
names of his companions, he confessed, with 
much deep recrimination, the way in which he 
had passed the preceding evening. He did not 
attempt to excuse himself, or to soften the facts 
in his description; indeed his artless mind colour- 
ed its first impressions only too strongly. He 
concluded by promising to he more cautious in 
future; and said, that for some time lie should re- 
fuse all invitations to parties. 

The reply of Lady Montague to her son’s let- 
ter was both illiberal and injudicious. Augus- 
tine read it with hopeless and heavy sighs, for it 
made him tremble to think how next to impossible 
it would be for him to pass through the perils of 
a college life, without becoming wliat Lady Mon- 
tague called a cast-away ! His mother had not 
added a word of encouragement or approbation 
on his determination not to enter again into such 
dissipated company. She wrote as if the mere 
F 2 


6@ Is this Religmi ? 

idea of his doing so were out of the question. Mr. 
Cramp had added a sliort, but severe postscript; 
and poor Augustine marvelled, as he thought 
over the whole letter, what could have induced 
his parents, as it was their intention that he 
should take holy orders, to send him to a place 
of such inevitable danger. He bowed, however, 
in habitual acquiescence to what he considered 
his duty. 

Days, weeks passed away, and the young fresh- 
man kept, though with some difficulty, his reso- 
lution, and refused every invitation, except one 
to drink tea with his relation Mr. Bryan, and to 
dine with a very serious and decided graduate, to 
whom he had brought up a letter of introduction. 
His evenings were lonely, excessively lonely. 
He would often sit at his window, after having 
read hard most of the day, perfectly listless, 
whistling without knowing that he was doing so, 
or staring at w hat passed without, or listening to 
the wretched performance of one of his neigh- 
bours, who w^as teaching himself the flute. He 
could not sometimes help wishing that he might 
hear Villiers sing, if only the dullest hymn, or 
mingle again in tlie pleasant conversation of some 
of those young and elegant men whom he had met 
at Tracey’s rooms. He grieved to think that 
their society was sinful, and therefore forbidden. 
He was, however, interested by a letter which he 


Is this Religion ? 


67 


received from Mr. Cramp. His tutor, after a 
long prologue of stale advice, informed him, that 
his own nepliew, a most promising youth, was, he 
had just heard, then at Cambridge, and he was 
authorized by Sir George and Lady Montague to 
desire that Mr. Montague would cultivate his ac- 
quaintance, 

^‘Tarver! Tarver i’’ repeated Augustine, as he 
folded up the letter: ‘‘what a strange and vulgar- 
sounding name 

He set off that very morning, however, to call 
on Mr. Tarver, at Queen’s. With some difficulty 
he found his rooms. “Come in,” Mr. Tarver 
called out in a harsh voice, as Augustine knocked 
at the door. Mr. Tarver was a broad, short 
little gentleman, who raised his eyes with rather 
a sullen stare from a mathematical book, as his 
visitor enterc(J. His face cleared up, and smooth- 
ed itself in an astonishing manner, and his wide 
moutli half split his face breadthways, as he sur- 
veyed the silver-laced gown and hat of the elegant 
hat-fellow-commoner of Trinity. He jumped up 
with surprising agility, caught up and set dowm 
a chair, and received Montague with exubeiant 
delight, and Montague thought him particularly 
vulgar and disagreeable. 

He talked, however, so long and so fluently in 
that way, which Augustine iiad been tauglit to 
think the best way, that he distrusted his own 


68r 


Is this Meligion"/ 


taste, and believed that he ought to like Mr. Tar- 
ver. He asked his new acquaintance to pass the 
evening of that day with him, and Mr. Tarver 
joyfully agreed to do so. But it was in vain that 
Montague endeavoured to become the intimate 
friend of Tarver, nor could he ever help feeling 
constrained in his presence. 

At Tarver’s rooms he met a set of persons very 
unpleasing in their sentiments and manners. One 
of them alone pleased him, a Mr. Temple; hut he 
was excessively reserved, and Augustine tried in 
vain to become well acquainted with him. The 
others were all overpoweringly civil and familiar. 
Temple was quiet, perfectly natural, and yet ele- 
gant in his manners. He listened much, hut 
spoke little; and Augustii^e wondered to meet 
him among such a set of narrow-minded, weak- 
headed companions. Augustine had habitually 
joined in customs of his ow n family; but he could 
not join with the same zeal in the practices of his 
new associates, when, in the midst of their wine- 
drinking and idle gossiping, they would all kneel 
down to pray extempore by turns, and rise up to 
sing, or rather to drawl out hymns, in which 
there was little real Christianity, less poetry, and 
less common sense. 


CHAPTER V. 


“Tell me, my dear Montague, ^vhat do you 
do with yourself in the evening now ? I have not 
met you, but at that one dinner-party at Mr. 

S ’s, since you gave me the pleasure of your 

company at my rooms. 

Montague turned round. He had before suc- 
ceeded in shunning Tracey; he could not in com- 
mon politeness do so any longer. They had 
been sitting in the same pew that Thursday even- 
ing; and they were then passing out of Trinity 
Church through the same door. Augustine liked 
Tracey, and he replied to his questions with much 
hearty friendliness; but he spoke, as his custom 
was, the simple truth, and confessed that he had 
purposely avoided him because his parties were 
too gay. *‘He did not wjsli, he had no right, in- 
deed,’’ he said, to make any of his remarks on 
the subject. like he said, ^‘very well, 

but I do not like cards, nor bowls of bishop, nor 
midnight, nay morning hours;” nor profane songs,- 
he was going to add, but he checked himself, for 
he could not forget the pure and genuine delight 
with which he had listened to the singing of Vih 
liers. 


TO 


Is this Religion? 


<‘Ah! I quite understand you,’’ cried Tracey, 
as Montague hesitated. ‘‘I know” (here he offer- 
ed his arm to Augustine, and did not continue his 
sentence till the other took it,) “I know what you 
must have felt that evening. I ought to act as 
you do, but I know not how it is — my friends as- 
semble around me, and I only think of entertain- 
in them. Then, too, the men you met were old 
school-fellows of mine: we were all boys together, 
and I can’t pretend to be so much better than they 
ai*e — they would soon sneer at me; but come to 
my rooms to-night, and we will talk the matter 
over. I am quite alone. We will drink tea to- 
gether as quietly as two old ladies, and I will 
turn you away as the clock strikes ten.” 

Augustine in his coolest judgment could not 
find a reason to prevent his accompanying Tracey 
to his rooms. They talked the matter over to- 
gether, and Tracey brought forward with such 
effect some of the same reasoning with which he 
had long deceived himself, that Augustine went 
home that night saying to himself, ‘‘After all, 
there is a great deal of truth and good sense in 
those arguments of Tracey’s.” 

The next evening Tracey paid Montague an 
early visit, and invited himself to pass the even- 
ing with him. He made himself even more 
agreeable than before. Augustine had never till 
tlien met with any one in whom he felt so inclined 


71 


Is this Religion ^ 

to repose his confidence, or rather he had never 
before been allowed to converse so freely v ith a 
young man of his own age, whose society he 
thought pleasant. The conversation turned on 
the peculiar habits of their families, and Augus- 
tine was astonished to find, that although Tracey 
seemed to know so much of the world, his parents 
were as strict as his own. Tracey described the 
way in which he had been brought up; and while 
he praised the motives of those who had been 
about him, he could not resist smiling sometimes 
at what he called ‘‘+heir ignorance of the world.’^ 
Augustine did not quite relish any thing like ridi- 
cule on such a subject; but his common sense forced 
him to allovy tliere wa^ much truth in many of 
Tracey ’s remarks. He was, however, endeavour- 
ing to combat them, when Tarver made his ap- 
pearance. Tarver w as more than commonly vul- 
gar, and Montague felt more than commonly an- 
noyed by his oppressive familiiudty. Tracey’s 
manner changed as soon as Tarver appeared; he 
spoke little; was very distant; and Augustine ob- 
served, that he raised his head and stared with 
looks of unfeigned surprise at Mr. Tarwer while 
that gentleman w as speaking. 

‘‘Who is that strange person, my dear Mon- 
tague ?” said Tracey, resuming his own manner 
as Tarver left the room. 

Augustine blushed and hesitated, he knew not 
why, and replied, ‘‘His nainc is l.arver.” 


Is this Religion ? 


dear fellow/’ said Tracey earnestly* 
< ^excuse the liberty 1 takej but I hope that man is 
not a friend, an intimate friend of yours. 1 have 
seen you with him before, and I wondered where 
you could pick up such a creature. I thought I 
knew his face, and now you have mentioned his 
name, I recollect — but no ! I had better say no- 
thing about him. I have net seen him for some 
years.” 

Tracey attempted to change the subject; but 
Augustine caught at what he had said, and begged 
him to be more explicit. 

<*You dislike that mail,” he said, ‘^and perhaps 
you have vSome reason for doing so: would it not 
be friendly to tell me what you were nearly be- 
traying? for I assure you, though I am obliged to 
see so much of Tarver, I cannot make a friend of 
him.” 

^TIow obliged;” inquired Tracey. 

<^Oh ! he is the nephew of a late tutor of mine, 
and my fatlier and mother have desired me to cul- 
tivate his acquaintance.” 

^‘My dear Montague,” said Tracey, ‘T am not 
so very sorry that I have it in my pow er to guard 
you against making that man a particular friend, 
till you have tried and known liim much longer: 
but I should be really grieved if I thought the few^ 
words I have spoken could in any way injure 
liini. He may be now, and I trust he is, a very 


jfe this Religion? 


good sort of fellow; and I would willingly tell him 
to Ids face that I am very sorry if my thoughtless 
words have hurt him in your opinion. You will 
not soon again hear any thing on the subject from 
me, and pray oblige me by forgetting my words 
as fast as you can. I will tell you any thing 
about myself,” he continued, “as you have so in- 
genuously confessed the reasons why you shunned 
me of late; tliough at present I fear you think me 
a very profane sort of person, because I have some 
gay friends, or I should say acquaintances. I 
ratlier hatter myself that I have Iiigh authority for 
being on good terms with them. Does not St. 
Paul say, that he became <all things to all men ?’ ^ 

It was strange that both Tracey and Montague 
(though the latter iiad learnt the Scripture so of- 
ten) should forget just then that St. Paul adds to 
the words, “I became all things to all men,” this 
reason, < ^that Imight save some,^^ I fear that had 
Tracey’s reason been given in strict truth, it 
would have been this, *Hhat I may please my- 
seip^ 

Tracey and Montague were now frequently to- 
gether; and the latter began gradually to throw’ 
off what Tracey called “the shackles of his early 
prejudices.” But poor Montague was not able 
to trim, and keep on good terms w ith all parties. 
He had more honest openness of character than 
Tracey. His feelings and passions w^ere more 
It 


74 Is this Religion ? 

violent, and far less under his control. He soon 
went on to lengths far beyond what Tracey could 
approve^ and in fact he soon cared little whether 
Tracey approved or not. He got tired of him, 
and thought that there was sometliing contempti- 
ble in Tracey’s anxious desire to please all per- 
sons. He was not long in learning that some of 
Tracey’s friends understood his character better 
than he himself did, and laughed at him behind 
his back. Augustine liked Villiers far better: he 
had more manly ways of thinking and acting, and 
more consistent principles. He had many more 
faults, hut more decided virtues. He did not 
know much of religion, but he never ridiculed even 
the religious absurdities of others — nay, he re- 
spected them, and often lamented that he had not 
been brought up among persons whose example 
and instruction might have taught him better. 

4s Augustine mingled more and more in the 
ways of the world, he began to break off his inti- 
macy with his former set. At last he gave them 
up altogether; for he felt that it would he hypo- 
critical in him to profess sentiments which he no 
longer felt. Tarver, however, was not to be 
given up: in vain did Montague tell him, laugh- 
ing, “that he thought his religion a terrible bore;” 
he was not to be avoided. He certainly left off 
inviting Montague to his rooms; but he was con- 
tinually at Trinity. Montague was rather asham- 


Is this Religion ? 


75 


ed of his manners and appearance among his gay 
and fashionable friends; but he had too much kind- 
ness to let him think so. He felt at the same time 
astonished, that Tarver was neither hurt nor 
offended at the change in his behaviour tow ards 
him. Tarver was not easily hurt or offended, 
He had his reasons for clinging to Montague’s 
society. Montague had plenty of money, and was 
very generous. He was good-natured and credu- 
lous to a fault; and Tarver had only to praise any 
thing in a way peculiar to himself — Montague 
would instantly offer it; and then Tarver wmuld 
assure his friend, <^that he could not think of rob- 
bing him.” These words quieted his conscience; 
and thanks, and expressions of satisfied delight, 
follow ed of course. But I w ould not speak thus 
lightly of Tarver’s character. I must give a few 
serious words to him, and mention him no more, 
or as seldom as possible afterwards. Tarver 
was, in fact, one of those poor wretches — the 
thoughtless world say there are many — I hope, 
and think there are but few such — he was a hy- 
pocrite ! He had begun by deceiving himself, and 
(finding out his own wretched weakness when it 
was, lie thought, too late to confess it,) to satisfy 
his own pride — to keep up, by any means, the 
high profession he had held — he ended by deceiv- 
ing others. I shall not mention the many little 
increasing meannesses by w Iiicli he advanced in 


76 


Is this Religion 


the path of crimes the many pitiful excuses by 
which he soothed and satisfied his conscience at 
every step he took. I think that my readers can- 
not hear too little of the exposure of a religious 
hypocrite. The thoughtless often suffer the holi- 
ness of religion itself to be degraded in their minds 
when a human professor proves false. 

I have said that Montague was liberal: he was 
even careless about his money. Tarver liad seen 
him throw notes of high value loose into a drawer, 
which was often left unlocked. 

Montague had, at times, missed some of his 
money: he half suspected his gyp, or his bed-ma- 
ker, though he accused no one but himself for his 
own carelessness; but at last the thief discovered 
himself. Montague could scarcely believe his 
^yes; but Tarver was standing before the draw- 
er, — ^the key was turning in one hand, some bank 
notes were crushed together in the other. Tar- 
ver’s face w-as scardet and of ashy paleness in a 
moment: he tried to rally; and as Montague stood 
looking on him in speechless astonishment, some- 
thing like a smile distorted the face of the poor 
wretch, and words of habitual deceit escaped from 
his lips. A look of indignant contempt flashed 
from the eyes of Montague full upon the convict- 
ed hypocrite; but immediately it past away: the 
noble boy burst into an agony of tears, and \\’ept 
over the exposure of the guilty wretcli, as if his 


Is this Meligion? 


77 


heart would break. But as soon as he could, 
Montague recovered his self-possession: he wiped 
his eyes, and then locked both the outer and inner 
door of his rooms. Tarver augured well from 
Augustine’s tears: he had gained time also to ar- 
range his own thoughts; and before Montague 
could speak, he began in his smoothest voice. — 
Montague checked him at once, solemnly, and 
even sternly. “Let me not hear a word, sir!” 
he cried. “Do not, for God’s sake, add the sin 
of lying to that which is already too evident! 
You are here alone with me,” he said, in the same 
serious tone; “no one can at present disturb us. 
I feel more for you than for myself; and here I 
solemnly promise you never to mention what has 
happened — never from this moment.” 

Tarver’s thanks were ready. 

“No, sir,” replied Montague; “I need no 
tlianks. We must not meet again as we have 
done: I could not conceal my feelings. I am 
your friend still; but never again your compan- 
ion.” 

Tarver had kept the notes in his closed hand: 
he now came up to Montague, and offered them. 

“Oh! no, keep them, keep them,” he said, with 
a hurried and trembling voice: “You must have 
needed money very much, or you could never have 
acted thus. Oh, why did you not tell me? You 
might have commanded my whole purse — any 
G 2 


7b 


Is this Heligion? 


thing — any thing but what has happened ! There 
is no use, however, in saying more on this sub- 
ject.” He unfastened the doors; and Tarver, his 
face bent towards the ground, but the bank notes 
still in his hand, departed. 

“And this is religion !” thought Augustine to 
himself. “One had better be as openly profligate 
as Harrison, or any of those men whose habits I 
used to look upon with such abhorrence, than such 
a whited sepulchre as that poor sanctified wretch.” 
Alas! it never occurred to him, that it was not 
necessary to run into one extreme, that the oppo- 
site extreme might be avoided. He began to as- 
sociate religion and hypocrisy together in his 
mind; and while he inwardly determined to show 
that he was not a religious hypocrite, he saw no 
other way of doing so, than by adopting another, 
and much commoner sort of hypocrisy, that of 
pretending to be more profligate than he really 
was. 

It happened, that there were few of Montague’s 
intimate associates then in Cambridge. By his 
father’s advice, he had remained in College to 
read daring the Christmas vacation; yet he had 
scarcely opened a book. He had associated chief- 
ly with Villiers and Lord William Lucas; but the 
latter went into Bedfordshire about the middle of 
the vacation, and Villiers, who was keeping his 
last term when Montague entered upon his first. 


Is this Religion 9 


79 


had taken his degree a few days before the dis- 
covery of Tarver’s guilt, and left the university. 
Montague was thrown into the society of Mr. 
Harrison, towards whom he had once taken a dis- 
like. Harrison had some good qualities; though 
his harsh manner and unpleasant voice prejudiced 
many persons against him. He was sincere, and 
a staunch friend. Harrison had shown some 
kindness to Montague about a liorse of his when 
it was lame, and had been heard to say, “that he 
thought Montague one of the best riders in Cam- 
bridge;” and that same speech had come round to 
Montague. Such agreeable praise on a matter 
of such deep importance to a young man as his 
horsemanship, disposed Montague to a much kind- 
lier spirit towards Harrison; and when a note 
came from him, soon after Tarver quitted Mon- 
tague’s rooms, to ask the latter to join in a shoot- 
ing party the next morning, Augustine gladly 
shook off the gloomy reveries into which Tarver’s 
conduct had thrown him, and went to answer the 
note in person. He found Harrison booted and 
spurred, and standing, with his hat and gloves on, 
before a large round of beef, part of whicli he had 
been devouring voraciously. “Come, my good 
fellow,” he managed to say, though his mouth 
was crammed immoderately full, “Let me see you 
set to upon this beef. It’s monstrous good, I 
promise you ! 1 am just taking a farewell mouth- 


80 


Is this Religion y 


ful^ tlioiigli, to tell you tlic truth,” he said grave- 
ly, had done luncheon; but it looked so very 
tempting, I could not resist tasting it again as I 
passed. Do you like capsicums? Taste those: 
they are little enough, and look very green and 
cool; but they’ve a sting like a wasp: they came 
from my West India estates,” he added, rather 
pompously. ‘‘What, you don’t eat? — not well? — 
have a headache? Eh? What do you say to a 
canter over the hills, just for a little air? Eh? Not 
much need of air, either, this fine frosty weather?” 
He buttoned up his short drab surtout as he 
spoke. 

Montague found the air of the hills so inspirit- 
ing, that his headache had left him before he re- 
turned home, and he was able to bear the noisy 
mirth of a select dinner party at Harrison’s 
rooms. The select party was composed of a few 
very choice spirits. There was a famous whip, 
whose chief enjoyment was to pass the night three 
times in the week upon a coach box between Lon- 
don and Cambridge. He was a steady, sober, 
smooth-faced man, who had entered, heart and 
soul, into the mysteries of driving; and was too 
well used to the thing to make any display or 
pretension about it, but was civil, well-behaved, 
and silent: in short, those who judged only by his 
manner and appearance; his sleek hair, smoothed 
flat upon his forehead; the thick shawl about his 


Is this Religion ? 


81 


neck; the breeches which reached half way down 
tlie calf of his leg; his white worsted stockings, 
and many other infallible signs, would have taken 
him for a very grave and decent stage coachman. 
There was a noisy and knowing Newmarket man, 
who was reported, young as he was, to have made 
much money by betting, or rather by hedging and 
calculating on the turf. There was an experienc- 
ed boxer, who talked eloquently of his personal 
acquaintance with Tom Spring and Jack Randall, 
and gave the earliest information of all the battles 
that were to be fought in the next half year. He 
had seen one of his friends, a distinguished 
bruiser, in training at Wade’s mill, but a few 
days before, which afforded a fund of conversation 
for him. 

There was a stalwart, half-pay captain, who 
had renounced Bellona, and was come up to Cam- 
bridge to take mother church by storm. He was 
what is called ‘^an eternal proser,” and detailed, 
most elaborately, his many discoveries and per- 
ceptions on many particularly unimportant sub- 
jects, which said discoveries and perceptions his 
hearers patiently sighed or smiled over as truisms 
and very old acquaintances. There was a 
long, lean, ‘‘sallow, sublime sort of Werter- 
faced man,” who arranged his hair after the 
prints of Lord Byron, and talked in a sort of 
poetical prose, (which some persons thought 


82 


Is this Religion^ 


nonsense;) and went off into raptures of enthu- 
siasm about Lalla Rookh^ and was said to be 
in love with a certain very fair, but rather 
frail actressy and be was silly enough, not only 
to wear, but to show a beautiful miniature of the 
said lady. And there was a little gentleman, 
with a delicate figure, and a pretty girlish face, 
who would have looked very feminine even in his 
sister’s clothes; but who seemed determined to ho 
a most awful personage. He strove to turn his 
childish tones into a big manly voice; and had a 
power of most terrible oaths and slang phrases at 
his tongue’s end, and was, indeed, by his own ac- 
count, so valiant a fellow, that he frequently re- 
minded his companions that Tom Thumb had at 
last found a formidable rival. 

With these choice companions Montague sat 
down to dinner, after standing and looking round 
in vain to see who was going to offer up grace. 
Harrison’s wines were famous among his friends; 
and so much champaignew as sent round that, be- 
fore the cloth w as removed, Montague’s spirits 
were unusually elevated. The conversation shift- 
ed successively through various subjects, by which 
Montague, w ho w as still comparatively a novice, 
was considerably edified. First the little gentle- 
man wdth the girlish face, who was. occasionally, 
a very fine gentleman, made some general re- 
marks about a new afterpiece w hich he had seen 
at Covent-Garden a few nights before. 


Is this Religion? 


83 


**<Aftcrpicce !” said the poetical-looking man, 
in a hollow measured voice, lifting up his long 
face from the wing of a chicken, wliich he was 
treating daintily. “Surely, you mean the pan- 
tomime; the last time any other sort of afterpiece 
was performed I was present, and saw that love- 
ly creature Miss in Maria Darlington.^' 

“By the by, Langdon," cried Harrison, in a 
harsh deliberate tone, “when is your tragedy 
to come out? Is it to be at the Lane or the 
Garden?" 

“It will not appear at present," replied Lang- 
don, solemnly; “ Macready advises me not to offer 
it at present at either of the theatres. I am afraid it 
has too poetical a character for the present taste. 
It is suited rather for the closet than the stage. I 
must own, I should have felttruely gratified, could 

I have beheld that glorious creature Miss 

personating the creation of my humble pen." 

Here began a long dissertation on the acting 

of Miss in several characters, during which 

the dull eyes of her admirer, Mr. Langdon, light- 
ed up from beneath the leathern lids, which usual- 
ly like extinguishers half dropt over them. He 
spoke also, and the measured drawl of his voice 
became feeble with agitation, as his memory 
brought before him the scenes, in which the divine 
girl (so he called her) had smiled or wept in her 
“purity and simple beauty," before some thou- 


84 ^ Is this Religion ? 

sand spectators. The prosing captain took an 
opportunity, when the rest of the party were soon 
after loudly discussing the merits of Izzy Belas- 
co, the bruiser, to entreat Langdon to give Mon- 
tague a sight of the miniature, and Langdon drew 
it forth with a deep sigh, from some recess in his 
long narrow chest. Augustine was surprised and 
delighted at the young, fresh, and very beautiful 
face w hich he beheld, apparently the portrait of a 
girl as modest as she was lovely; and, in his sim- 
plicity, he half believed the original to be deserv- 
ing of all the praise which had been lavished upon 
her. 

But it was not my intention to w rite a detailed 
account of this poi’tion of Augustine’s life. I 
have said almost enough about Harrison’s dinner- 
party ! I will only add, that after drinking, and 
talking, till nearly eleven o’clock^ four of the 
party sat dow n to cards; two stationed themselves 
beside the players, to bet upon the game; another 
fell fast asleep; and Montague amused himself by 
looking over a heavy-looking, and heavy-reading 
volume, entitled ^‘Life in London.” Milk-punch 
appeared to finish the evening, and poor Mon- 
tague, after appearing in quite a new' character, 
and singing, and laughing, and crying by turns 
like a madman; and struggling and offering to 
fight as he went along, w^as supported by two 
veterans, well used to drinking, to his own rooms. 


Is this lleligion? 


85 


and, I'or the first time, undressed and put to bed 
by them. In the night he was dreadfully sick; 
and Langdon, Mhose rooms were those adjoining 
Montague’s, licard him weeping and bewailing 
himself most dolefully, and uttering many vows 
of penitence; but he could also distinguish other 
sounds, which led him to conclude that the wine, 
which he had drank, was acting as a violent emet- 
ic, and he had no doubt he would soon be relieved 
in spirits as well as stomach. Langdon was too 
indolent, and too selfish to leave his own warm 
bed, and attend to his neighbour; and Montague 
did, as he expected, soon fall into a sound sleep, 
from wliich he was only roused by Harrison, who 
came to remind liim of Iiis promise to join the 
shooting party. Montague seemed at first un- 
willing to go with him, but Harrison declared 
that nothing would do him so much good as walk- 
ing over ploughed fields, in the bracing air, that 
it would make him quite another man; and accord- 
ingly Montague went. 

The next evening, Montague drove in a tandem 
to the Huntingdon Ball; and a few days after he 
stole a visit to London with Langdon, that they 
might just take a peep iit the play and the opera. 

No novice in profligacy need serve a long ap- 
prenticeship. With plenty of money he may soon 
become fully initiated. Augustine Montague was 
soon as knowing as anv of his young companions, 
H 


86 


Is this Religion ? 


and he settled indeed into habits quite as riotous 
and extravagant. The Spring was now fast ap- 
proaching, and Montague began, at times, to look 
forward with dread to the Easter vacation, when 
he had promised to spend a fortnight with his 
parents. His father, with the fullest confidence 
in him, had given him leave to use his own dis- 
cretion, and spend whatever money he might find 
necessary. He had been touched at first, deeply 
touched, by such a proof of his father's confidence, 
and had resolved to prove liimself worthy of it; 
hut the times of trial and temptation liad arrived, 
and his resolutions were quite forgotten. He did 
not dare calculate his debts. As to his altered 
sentiments on religion, Augustine w ilfully turned 
his thoughts from them, for he could not bear to 
anticipate what might be their effect upon Sir 
George and Lady Montague. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Augustine’s feelings were not unlike those of 
a condemned felon, who is respited, when about a 
week before Easter he received a letter from his 
mother, informing him, that as Easter fell very 
late that year, and as a few weeks only would 
elapse between the end of the Easter vacation, and 
the examination of the under graduates at Trinity 
College, Mr. Cramp and his father both thought 
that his return home had better be delferred till 
the long vacation. ‘‘You will thereby be en- 
abled,” she added, “to keep your mind free from 
all distractions, and to be well prepared in every 
respect when the examination commences, in which, 
we are anxious to hear that you have distinguish- 
ed yourself.” 

Augustine remained at Cambridge. The time 
fixed for the examination arrived. He waited to 
see his name in the classes, and felt confounded 
for a few moments when he saw his name in the 
seventh class. Others came also into the hall to 
look for their names, and Augustine put on a look 
of perfect unconcern, whistled, not for want of 
care, and walked away. 


88 


Is this Religion ? 


At the commencement of the long vacation, Au- 
gustine returned home. He entered the well- 
known hall of his father’s house, in a state of sul- 
len apathy; and scarcely noticed the servant, who 
respectfully saluted him as he opened the door. 
He heard his mother utter a cry of joy, and saw 
her rush forward to meet him — lier usual made- 
up manner quite overcome with delight at behold- 
ing him again. His heart was softened; so that 
when his father came in, he had nearly given way 
to his feelings, and wept aloud. Angry, and 
ashamed at his weakness, he struggled with him- 
self, and did not betray his agitation. 

At first he determined to avow the change in his 
opinions openly; but he soon perceived that he 
should then only add an unnecessary pang to the 
disappointment of his parents. He took another 
course, and said nothing. 

He conformed in his outward manner to the 
customs of the family; and listened with constrain- 
ed attention to the conversation of those around 
him, when they addressed him. But he now 
missed the amusements and dissipations which he 
was accustomed to at Cambridge, and being tlius 
thrown upon himself, hardly an hour in the day 
passed but left him more wretched and dispirited. 
He looked in vain, however, for relief. His eyes 
were opened to all tlie absurdities of his family: 
tlieir narrowness of mind: tlieir spiritual pride. 


Is this Religion ? 


89 


and tlie great want of Christian charity, wliicli 
was so often lost siglit of, in warm discussions 
about Christian faith. No fault of his parents 
now escaped the notice of Augustine, and he won- 
dered at his former blindness; and looked back 
upon his former self with contempt; till he found 
great difficulty in forcing himself to treat them 
with that outward respect which he had never 
failed to keep up towards them. He sometimes 
gave way to the temptation which he felt to ex- 
press his own opinion, when any thing was said 
particularly offensive to him. And thus he drag- 
ged on his cheerless existence, till at length the 
day of his return to Cambridge drew near, and 
lie began to rejoice that he should be able to es- 
cape from the home where lie had once been so 
haiipy. 

At breakfast, the morning before his intended 
departure, he announced his intention of going to 
Cambridge, to his father and mother. 

< ‘Going whither, Augustine?’’ his mother cried 
out, with a stare of unfeigned surprise. 

“To Cambridge,” he answered, dryly: “I must 
set off to-morrow.” 

“And I must beg you will not. Pray, Sir 
George, desire Augustine to wait. I have quite 
set my heart on his being present at the mission- 
ary meeting on Thursday.” 

H 2 


90 Is thU Religion^ 

<^An(l oui* lectures begin on Wednesday;” re- 
plied her son. 

I am sure, your lectures are not of half 
the importance of the missionary meeting. I dare 
say you would be excused for a few days: do you 
not think so, Sir George?’? 

^ ^Certainly, my dear! I should like Augus- 
tine to stay, but he is right to think about the 
lectures.” 

^^Dear, Sir George, how strange you are! I 
dont understand your way of reasoning: — it is 
right for him to stay, and it is right for him to 
go ! I am sorry that I said any thing about imj 
wishes.” 

really do not quite comprehend what I can 
have said to annoy you so excessively. Lady 
Montague ! You are, allow me to say so, strange 
in your manner this morning.” 

suppose,” said the lady, very pettishly, ‘^you 
are both of opinion that the missionary meeting 
is to be neglected for these school-boy lectures. 
Now, I must say, that I think it decidedly wrong 
for Augustine to turn his back upon the mission- 
ary meeting. 

‘‘But will you tell me,” asked Augustine, very 
coolly, “why my presence is so necessary?” 

“Why ! you should be there to — ^to ” 

“Not to make a speech, I hope,” said Augus- 
tine, “for really that is quite out of the question. 


Is this Religion? 


9J 

‘‘No, not to make a speech, but to — to show 
yourself an advocate of the cause, and to listen 
to the useful information which may be gained 
there.’’ 

Augustine was not apt to be impertinent, but 
now something like a smile hovered for a moment 
about his upper lip, and his only answer was a 
sound very like “Hem!” 

“Very well, sir!” said his mother, in a tone of 
peculiar bitterness: “I see tliat you have learned 
to sneer at these subjects. Your college life has 
done you much good, certainly ! I remember the 
time when you used to consider it a delight, and 
a privilege, to be allow^ed to attend a missionary 
meeting. Thank you, sir, for your sneer; you are 
certainly much improved since you have left us: 
at least you seem to be so in your own eyes; for, I 
must confess, that though you are grown con- 
siderably taller, I think you are altered very much 
for the worse. But if you were as high as the 
house, sir, I should still take the liberty of speak- 
ing my mind.” 

“I am sure I should be very sorry to prevent 
you,” he began. 

“You never 'wiU prevent me, I assure you,” 
she said emphatically; “and now an opportunity 
has occurred, I must tell you, that / have remark- 
ed your sullen and haughty looks of late; and I 
should wish, now your father is present, to learn 


Is this Iteligion? 


9 £ 

what has occasioned them. To tell yon the trutii, 
Sir George, I am sorry that I spoke so warmly to 
you, for I did not mean what I said of you: I was 
hurt and grieved, not so much by any thing that 
was said, as by Augustine’s looks. All this 
morning, there lias been the same expression on 
his face: nay, all the time he has been at home, 
since his return from Cambridge. I am not 
blind; I do not need words to tell me when any 
thing is amiss. Pray, Sir George, take some 
notice of this conduct — I beg it may be explain- 
ed.” 

During the latter part of her long speech. Lady 
Montague had addressed herself to Sir George as 
exclusively as if her son had not been in the room. 
Sir George turned languidly, first to his wife, and 
then to his son, and said, “I trust, Augustine, 
that you did not intend to he impertinent to your 
mother.” 

‘‘No, sir! I am sure I beg my mother’s pardon, 
if I seemed so.” 

“And you will stay over this missionary meet- 
ing.” 

“Oh, certainly, sir! whatever you, or my mo- 
ther desire, I must do. I will write immediately 
to say, that 1 need not be expected at my rooms 
till next Monday.” 

“But the explanation ! there has been no expla- 
nation, Sir George !” cried the lady, as her son 


Is this Iteligion? 


93 


Joungeii out ot' the room: ‘‘Pm not satisfied with 
his apologies, — I want to find out the cause of 
this change in Augustine. He has no enjoyment 
in any of his former pursuits. Do insist on his 
giving some explanation.” 

Sir George made his usual reply. ‘'Certainly, 
my dear, if you wish it.” 

“If I wisli it ! what an answer ! you know I do. 
I see by your face that you are scarcely attend- 
ing to a word I say.” 

But here. Sir George, who was justice of peace, 
was called away on some particular and pressing 
business, and he escaped with delight; leaving his 
lady still vehement in the assei'tion of her own 
opinions, and declaring tliat she should consult 
with Mr. Cramp how to treat her insufferable 
son. 

After the missionary meeting was over, many 
of the persons who had been present adjourned to 
Sir George Montague’s house, where a cold col- 
lation was laid out. 

Much social cheerfulness prevailed during the 
feast: but the cloth was scarcely removed, when 
a murmur ran round the table, that Mr. Cramp 

and a Mr. R were going to converse. A 

Imshed silence instantly prevailed, and the con- 
versation was begun by Mr. R , who hap- 

pened to sit at the farthest possible end of the ta 
hie from Mr. Cramp. 


94 


Is this Religion y 


^^Pray, Mr. Cramp, what is your opinion of 
the doctrine of final perseverance?” 

This happened to be a point on which Mr. 
Cramp entertained very peculiar, and, I may say, 
imscriptural opinions. Augustine saw, that as 
soon as Mr. Cramp began to speak, his father 
cast at him a beseeching look; and he determined 
to show that he understood and obeyed it. He 
turned towards the speaker with serious attention. 
But what was his astonishment, when, after ])ro- 
ceeding for some time in a very unintelligible 
strain, Mr. Cramp turned at once from his sub- 
ject, and began a solemn attack upon a person, 
whom he gave them to understand was not far 
distant. Augustine was puzzling himself to dis- 
cover whom he could allude to, when he heard 
words repeated, which he remembered to have 
used himself the day before. He looked round, 
and saw that many eyes were fixed on him. The 
attack of Mr. Cramp was ill-timed and illiberal 
in no common degree. It had the worst effect; 
on the person it was intended to reform. Augus- 
tine rose up, his face burning with rage, and 
looking round very haughtily, muttered: “D — d 
fool!” and at once quitted the table, and the 
room. He walked hastily into tlic garden, and 
finding the river which flowed through the 
grounds, and his boat before him, he leaped into 
the boat; and continued rowing with all his might. 


95 


Is this Religion ? 

till he was far from his home. But as his body 
became heated and fatigued by the exercise, his 
mind cooled; and laying down the oars, he suffer- 
ed the boat to float quietly down the sluggish 
river. He sunk into a train of serious and un- 
pleasant thoughts, from which he was suddenly 
startled by a stone, which struck him with vio- 
lence on the face. He looked round, very angry 
at the blow, and saw a boy standing on the bank, 
and laughing insolently at him. Augustine 
threatened to 'land and thrash him; but the boy 
only laughed more loudly; and, catching up ano- 
ther stone, quickly climbed a tree which liung 
over the stream. Before, however, the laughing 
boy could fling that other stone, his foot slipped, 
and he fell into the deep dark water beneath. 

Augustine hesitated not a moment; but throw- 
ing off his coat, he plunged into the stream. He 
was not an expert swimmer, and the drowming 
boy clung so closely round his neck, that with 
much difliculty he reached tlie shore. The boy 
hung his head, and muttering his thanks in a few 
words, stole aw ay. Augustine heeded him not, 
but ran farther down along the bank of the 
stream to get possession of his boat, which he per- 
ceived had drifted against the low branches of an 
alder. He was soon after accosted by a young 
w^oraan, who wej)t w hile she thanked him for sa- 
ving her brother's life, and w ho begged him to go 


96 


Is this Religion ? 


back with her to her home, and dry his clothes, 
for they were dripping with wet. Augustine 
followed her,* and at the back of a low hill, 
not fifty yards from the river, he beheld a 
small cottage. 

‘‘My poor mother is in a very low way, sir 
said the girl, as they approached the house. 
“What with my father’s death, (we buried him 
only last week^, and what with brother Richard’s 
idleness, and undutiful behaviour, she has some- 
times hardly the lieart to lift her head up. Per- 
haps you’ll say a word to her before you take 
your leave, for you seem a kind gentleman, and 
1 dare say you are a fine scliolar. None of us 
can read, sir; but here is father’s Bible, and per- 
haps you will read to my inotlier?” i 

He hesitated; but the girl put the Bible into his 
hands, and the mother looked up so mournfully 
and imploringly, that he opened the sacred book, . 
and read part of a chapter of St. Jolin’s Gospel. | 
His heart wanned, and his feelings became inte- f 
rested as he read. He found himself, before he 
was aware, explaining and enforcing the words 
of life, as he had heard others do, before he left 
home for Cambridge. Wlien he rose up to de- 
part, the blessings and thanks of the mother and 
daughter followed him; and he returned home in 
a more softened and serious frame of mind than 
he had been in for many moiiths. He w as cross- 


97 


Is this Keligidn? 

ing the hall, on his way to his own apartment, 
when the butler passed him. 

^‘Master Augustine he said, ^^vhy, where 
have you been? We have been looking every 
where for you. Pray make haste, for I have 
just carried the hymn-book into the drawing- 
room, and Mr. R is going to expound a 

chapter before prayers.’’ 

The old man continued speaking; but Augustine 
had turned away; and hastening to his own dress- 
ing-room, he banged to the door, and locked 
himself in; fastening also the outer door of his 
bedchamber, which was tlie adjoining room. 

^^Still tliis mummery !” he said, contemptuous- 
ly. am sick of their hymn-drawling, and 
their expoundings. 1 hate their long faces al- 
most as much as their forced mirth ! I go down 
and join in their cant? Indeed I shall not!” 

He threw himself into an arm chair, and gave 
way to a fit of thorough ill humour. He felt dis- 
contented with every one and every thing; but 
was, in fact, though he knew it not, most discon- 
tented with himself. There he sat in the arm 
chair, lost in that idleness of thought which is 
not worthy to be called thinking. He did not 
rise, till he heard the bolt of his door turned, 
and his mother’s voice calling on him to unlock 
the door and admit her. He was about to obey, 
I 


9B Is this Religion':^ 

when he distinguished another voice besides that 
of Ids mother. 

^^Pray excuse my opening the door to-night,’’ 
he said; ‘^I’m tired, and shall be soon in bed.” 

He heard, soon after, the door of his bed- 
chamber tried; and then his mother’s voice was 
raised to a higher key, insisting to be admitted 
instantly. He opened the door; and having done 
so, proudly and sullenly walked away from it. 

^‘Oh ! come in, sir,” cried Lady Montague; 
and when Augustine turned his head, Mr. Cramp 
stood beside his mother. ‘‘You are, of course, 
fully aware of the reason of this visit,” said the 
lady. “Your conduct, this day, has been most 
extraordinary and shameless; and thistimly excel- 
lent man (after much consideration) has deter- 
mined that it would not be right to pass over the 
indignity you so wantonly put upon him, and up- 
on our holy religion. We are, therefore, come 
to desire that you will return instantly with us 
to the assembly of our friends below, and there 
ask partlon for the grievous offence, which, being 
committed in public, calls also for a public apol- 
ogy.” 

Augustine stared with astonishment at his mo- 
ther; and his face glowed with hot and angry 
blushes; but he answered not a word. 

“You are ashamed,” she continued; “and, 
doubtless, you mourn over your sin; and I am 


Is this Religion"^ 99 

«orry that you should have brought so much up- 
on your head; but my feelings are also deeply 
wounded. I see the justice of the decision to 
which my friend hath come; and, therefore, can- 
not consent to your disobeying his request.’’ 

Lady Montague walked towards the door, but 
seeing that her son did not follow her, she turned, 
and commanded him to do so. 

am very sorry,” he said, not to be able to 
obey; but, in this instance, I cannot. I am not 
sorry I spoke so sharply to this gentleman. The 
apology is rather required on his side; for, upon 
my word, I should like to know what he meant 
by his impertinent and public attack upon me.” 

Lady Montague lifted up her hands and eyes 
in mute amazement; and Mr. Cramp began a 
long and violent rebuke; to which Augustine made 
no reply, but looked him in the face and smiled. 

“Tliis is past ail endurance,” exclaimed Lady 
Montague in a rage. “Have you not the slight- 
est reverence for your mother, and your tutor? 
You seem to forget even common decency.” 

commands 1 would willingly obey, 
ma’am,” said Augustine, “for you are my 
mother; but, as for Mr. Cramp, I tell liiin posi- 
tively, I will not submit to his interference any 
longer. I have borne it too long; for it required 
mucli to open my eyes to him. But, sir, 1 must 
now beg you to remember, that I am no longer a 
child, and that you are no longer my tutox%” 


100 


fs this Religion 


Lady Montague now trembled with passion, 
and Mr. Cramp turned deadly pale. Much more 
was said on both sides, which need not be repeat- 
ed: and at last Augustine was left alone. His 
mother, probably, little guessed the real state of 
his mind that evening. A very few minutes had 
elapsed after her departure, when, having again 
locked the door of his apartment, he flung himself 
upon his bed, and gave way to an uncontrollable 
burst of grief. Never had he felt so perfectly 
miserable. 

^‘Whatam I,’Mie said sternly to himself, ‘^that 
I should take upon me to speak to others as I have 
been speaking? What are their faults ? Bigotry 
— an over-scrupulous strictness. They are nar- 
row-minded and uncharitable I But, oh, God ’ 
what am I ?’^ 


CHAPTER VII. 


Augustine returned to Cambridge; and he half 
determined to shim his idle companions, and give 
lip his profligate ways: but half determinations, 
we all know, are useless; and finding it very dull 
to be alone, or to be obliged to think, he soon re- 
lapsed into his former habits. Sir Geoi*gc Mon- 
tague had, of course, settled the regular accounts 
presented by the college tutor; and the various 
sums he had drawn upon his father, although to 
a very high amount, had been paid by Sir George 
without a remark. But soon after Augustine’s 
return to Cambridge, bills without number were 
brought in; and he was panic struck. He knew 
nothing of the value of money, nor of the prices 
of the many things wliich he had thoughtlessly 
purchased. He had not restrained himself in any 
expense; and the consequence of his improvidence 
were debts to an amount almost incredible. He 
had just made a rough calculation of the amount 
when his servant came to tell iiim that his horse 
was waiting for liim. Augustine suddenly recol- 
lected an engagement to ride to a coarsing matcli, 
and, thrusting the bills into a drawer which he 

1 a 


10£ 


Is this Religion y 

locked, he flung himself on his horse, and forgot 
for a while his troubles. That day, he dined tete- 
a-tete with Harrison, at the Eagle; and was unu- 
sually serious. 

^^Do tell me, my dear fellow,” said the latter, 
after staring at him for some minutes, ‘‘what 
makes you so confoundedly down in the mouth to- 
day? Have you lost your heart to some pretty 
shop-girl? or has your governor sent you a row- 
ing letter?” 

“Oh ! nothing, nothing is the matter,” replied 
Augustine, forcing a laugh, and Ailing, and 
drinking down a bumper of wine. “What should 
be the matter, Eh ! old fellow?” and he gave him- 
self a sort of inward shake, and began to talk 
gaily, but at random. His forced mirth would 
not last; and again his companion rallied him on 
his dull abstraction. 

“Why, Montague, man ! you remind me of that 
first time when I met you at Tracey’s rooms, and 
you were so gloriously fresh, that you were afraid 
of a bottle, and left your heel-taps. You are not 
in my case, I trust,” and he laughed, and then 
put his hands into his pockets with an affected 
look of despair, “with empty pockets, and bills 
which must be paid.” 

“Indeed, but I am,” replied Augustine, resolv- 
ing suddenly to make Harrison his confidant. 
“I had not the slightest idea of the number of bills 


103 


Is this Ueligion ? 

wliich liavc been brouglit in to me; nor of tbe sum 
of money which will be re<iuired to pay them. 
How they are to be paid, I know not; for I can 
never have the face to ask my father for the mo- 
ney.” 

‘‘Why, how much is it?” 

Montague named the sum. 

^‘Why, no; you can^t exactly ask for all just at 
present;” and Harrison also looked grave, and 
seemed to consider. 

‘‘Had I not better,” Montague said, at length, 
(though he hesitated as he continued) “tell my 
father all my difliculties? He is always very 
kind, and the most liberal person 1 ever met with, 
as to money ?” 

“But you said the amount was at least £1000?” 

“0 yes ! so I did: no, I never can tell him. If 
he were harsh and avaricious, I should not so 
much mind the blame which I deserve from him; 
but I came up here determined not to abuse the 
confidence he placed in me.” 

“All very true, and very Tme, I dare say; 
though I have not heard much that you have been 
saying, old boy! I have been considering what 
sort of a plan this might be,” and he pointed to 
an advertisement in a newspaper which he had 
been conning over. 

“Money lent on any security!” cried Mon- 
tague, delighted. 


104 


Is this Religion?' 


He had never heard of money-lenders; and he 
listened eagerly wliile the more experienced Har- 
rison endeavoured to explain what he called the 
advantages of the plan. 

^‘Well, I cannot quite comprehend it,’’ said 
Montague, when Harrison rose to keep an en- 
gagement. 

<^I’ll tell you what,” replied his companion, 
<‘I know a man wlio has often paid a visit to these 
money-lenders. He will be in college in a week 
or two, and I can consult with him. Then we 
can talk over this plan, and decide upon some- 
thing: in the 'meantime you might draw' on your 
governor for as much as you can demand without 
drawing down his vengeance. The other bills 
may wait.” 

Augustine was glad to delay the pain of think- 
ing about his bills; and he allow^ed himself also 
to defer writing on the subject to his father till 
Harrison should have seen the friend he spoke of. 
In the mean time, he shut his eyes most resolute- 
ly against the necessity of a strict retrenchment 
in his expenses. He certainly did once or twdee 
say to himself, that when his bills w^ere once paid 
he w'ould be a very economical person: < ‘but what 
does it signify,” his foolish inclination whispered, 
^^vhether I owe a few pounds more or less than 
the sum which I already owe?” Inclination was 
9l syi'en to whom Augustine had been lately ac- 


105 


Is this lleligion? 

oustomed to listen very often: her false reasonings 
were effective; and the thoughtless boy continued 
to keep the same society, and to indulge in all 
those extravagant excesses which had hitherto 
enslaved him. Nay, he plunged deeper and deep- 
er in folly and sin; for, in this life, there is no 
standing still in our course. We must either go 
on in the broad way, which those who love the 
pomps and vanities of this wicked world follow, 
or we must proceed onward along the narrow way 
that leadeth unto eternal life. 

I shall not disgust some, and gratify others of 
iny readers, by detailing more of the incidents in 
Augustine’s course of profligacy. 1 have said 
enough to weary myself. 

It was a dull, raw morning in January that a 
young and hard-reading student, w ho had remain- 
ed in college during tlie Christmas vacation, w^as 
returning from his early morning walk along the 
Huntingdon Road. He was accustomed to force 
himself to w alk at that hour for exercise, though 
he was in a very delicate state of healtli. A 
heavy rain began to fall, and drove him home- 
w ards. As he walked hastily on, his eye was 
attracted by something lying under the hedge on 
the opposite side of the road. He crossed over, 
and beheld a human body stretched out, hut half 
hidden among the elow bushes. Tlie figure was 
lying with its face towards the earth; and, for a 


106 


Is this Religion ? 


moment, he drew back, for the horrid thought 
crossed him, that some one had been murdered on 
the spot. He stooped down, however, and gent- 
ly raised the body, and soon, to his joy, discover- 
ed, that the person, who lay in his arms, was 
neither murdered, nor dead. He had, alas! been 
only dead-drunk, and had lain in a heavy sleep 
for some few hours, after wandering away from 
a debauch, which had not broken up till long after 
midnight. The young student brushed away the 
dead leaves, which had fallen thickly over the 
hair of the youth, and as he gazed upon the fea- 
tures before him, he had a confused recollection 
that he had seen them before; where, he could not 
at first remember. The youth awoke, and, as- 
sisted by the kind arm of his siippoider, rose up. 
A deep blush spread over his thin and pallid face, 
ashe r eplied to the kind and anxious inquiries 
which were addressed to him. 

“I am very sorry,” lie said, with a constrain- 
ed manner, ^‘that you should meet me again as 
you now meet me.” 

beg your pardon,” replied his companion: 
^‘biit 1 cannot say that 1 i*eco]Iect your name, 
though T think I have seen you before.” 

Augustine, for it was he, mentioned where they 
had met, and declared whom he was. 

“Yes, I perfectly remember now,” replied 
Temple; ‘‘but you ax*e sadly altered in a little 


Is this Religion 9 107 

time — you have been very ill, I fear, since we 
last met?’’ 

^‘No, I have not been said Montague, in a 
low voice. 

They walked together towards the backs of the 
Colleges, and for some minutes neither of them 
spoke. Montague was the first to break the silencej’ 

“I should be sorry to part with you,” he said, 
^‘without frankly confessing that I am heartily 
ashamed of myself. You have, perhaps, saved 
my life; for I now feel so cold and ill, that if I 
had lain there much longer, it is not improbable 
that they might have found only a corpse. — Good 
God ! from what a dreadful punishment have I 
been saved !” He broke off suddenly here, and, 
gras])ing Temple’s hand, turned away towards 
tlie iron gates of his own college. Yet ere he 
turned, Temple remarked to himself, that be had 
seldom seen an expression of such bitter wretched- 
ness on any countenance. He stood still for some 
moments on the spot where he had parted from 
Montague, and then liastened after him. 

was very thoughtless,” he said, ‘^not to offer 
to accompany you (unwell as you are) to your 
rooms.” 

There w^as so much real affectionate feeling in 
the tone with which Temple pronounced these 
words, that Montague felt certain a friend was 
speaking. 


108 


Is this Religion ? 


^^How kind you are!” he replied, and Temple 
saw that tears were in his eyes. 

For some days Montague was too unwell to 
leave his rooms. Temple saw by his friend’s man- 
ner, that his society was agreeable; and he became 
Montague’s constant visiter. 

*‘Do not go away when others call on me,” 
said Augustine to Temple one morning; ‘‘do not 
go away unless you dislike their society: but per- 
haps you do; for their tastes and habits are, I 
suspect, very different from your own.” 

“I care little w hether I meet them or not in so 
casual a way,” said Temple. “My reason for 
going away is simply because I know they are 
your friends, and that I fear, (now I am so fre- 
quently in your rooms) lest you should ever feel 
me in the way.” 

“You in the way! My dear kind Temple, how 
can you say so? And as for friends, I used to 
think them so, till I knew you. You have spoilt 
me for their friendsliip. I begin to know’^ wdiat 
a friend is ! I w ish 1 had known you before, 
Temple, for I might have been saved much 
misery.” 

“I believe that few understand what real friend- 
ship is,” replied Temple: “we are all ready to 
talk about friendship, but we are often satisfied 
wdth only the name.” 

“Will you be my friend, Temple?” 


Is this Religion? 


109 


♦'•Will you take a bitter medicine, Montague?’’ 

‘♦Why do you ask so strange a question, in- 
stead of giving me an answer?” 

Because ‘a faithful friend is the medicine of 
life:’ and 1 fear that you might find my friendship 
somewhat unpleasant to bear with.” 

“But I am sick, ivbt only in body but in soul, 
and need medicine,” replied Augustine. 

“Then on such terms you will take my friend- 
ship ?” said Temple. 

“I will, and thank you heartily.” 

“I must hear then,” said Temple, and a smile 
of peculiar arcliness played over his countenance; 
“I must hear from my patient his own account of 
his case, l»is own opinion of his liealth.” 

“You shall have it in earnest, my friend:” and 
Montague clasped his hand, while lus looks ex- 
pressed deep mental suffering. “But what am I 
to tell you ? what can I confess ? what have 1 to 
describe, but a dull and dreary indifference to 
every thing, an utter carelessness and deadness, 
which indeed I know not how to describe ? Till 
very lately, till after that fearful morning when 
our friendship began, I had been reckless as to 
what became of me — I had but one object before 
me, I made but one effort, and tliat was, not to 
think.” 

“And were you ever happy ?” inquired Tem-^ 
pie. 

J 


no 


Is this Religion? 


^‘No, not happy — certainly not happy! I have 
found a feverish kind of enjoyment in the excesses 
to which I willingly yielded, hut they were al- 
ways succeeded by a thorough sickness of heart, 
a disrelish for every thing without excitement.” 

^‘But why not,” exclaimed Temple, “why not 
make a determined and vigorous exertion, and 
free yourself at once ?” 

“Oh! I don’t know — I could not — they were 
habits — ^they seemed necessary to me — they were 
part of myself. I told you that I did all I could 
to banish thought. It was easier to yield than to 
think; and every time I yielded, the habit twined 
itself more closely round me, and fixed me down 
more firmly in the bondage of sin !” 

^‘But did you never pray for divine help ?” 
cried Temple. 

“O no ! prayer would have been but a mockery 
from one so debased as myself. I tell you the 
truth (though you will grieve to hear it) when I 
confess that I have neither breathed a thought in 
prayer, nor once opened the Holy Bible, for ma- 
ny months.” 

“But now, you surely have returned to prayer 
and to the Scriptures !” 

have not,” replied he, “nor-can I. It would 
be hypocrisy in me; for, I own, that I am still but 
little changed. My sins have still, as it were, 
many mouths — ^they still crave to be satisfied; and 


Is this Religion? 


Ill 


I am still so wretched a slave that I cannot at- 
tempt to get free.” 

*‘You do not mean, surely, that yon are still 
unresolved about the change of life, which I so 
anxiously desire to see.” 

^ ^Indeed but 1 do,” said Montague. cer- 
tainly have, at times, a wish to be changed, but 
I cannot be what you wish me at present. Some 
little time hence I may take courage to begin.” 

^‘Nay, but you must begin instantly!” exclaim- 
ed Temple, with much warmth. *‘If you hesi- 
tate, you only increase the difficulty. I know 
that you have not a very easy work before you| 
but if, witli prayer and constant watching, you 
will only resolutely determine, and begin at once 
to walk in a new way, every step you take will 
become easier than the last. I would also remind 
you, that you must not be daunted, if your new 
resolutions fail sometimes under the force of your 
present habits^ for a habit when opposed to a re- 
solution is as a host against one, A habit must 
be opposed by a habit, not by a mere resolution. 
Go on stedfastly and gradually resisting evil. 
Acquire the habit of resisting without yielding, 
and, in the midst of your trial of pain and pa- 
tience, you will suddenly find that a bad habit 
has been rooted out, and a good one planted in 
its stead.” 

<‘Yes, all this may be very true,” replied Mon- 


112 


Is this Religion ? 


tague, ^‘but I frankly confess, I have not courag^ 
enough to bear up under the mortification of suck 
constant self-denial.’’ / 

‘‘You have courage and manly resolution even 
in trifles, Montague; and can you so debase your- 
self as to shrink from the noble daring which 
your highest interests require of you ? But you 
are, indeed, grossly mistaken if you imagine that 
your exertions would be without encouragements. 
Numberless are the encouragements w hich come 
cheering and refreshing the mind, when the sin- 
ner has resolutely set forth to seek his father’s 
face, and confess his unworthiness, his guilt, his 
utter helplessness. Your feet may have to strug- 
gle through dark and rough ways, beset with 
perplexing snares; but there is a sunshine ever 
bright and gladdening overhead. When the poor 
prodigal drew near to his father, he found that 
his tender parent had seen him afar off*, and had 
compassion on him. And his father did not w ait 
to be gracious then, but ran and fell upon his 
neck, and kissed him.” 

In a former conversation Montague had spoken 
of his bills to Temple, and his friend’s advice had 
been to write without reserve to his father, to 
confess every thing. They had even made out a 
correct list of the bills; but Montague still delay- 
ed to send it off, and it lay in his w riting-case neg- 
lected. though not forgotten. In vain did Tern- 


Is this Religion ? 113 

I pie now urge him on this point. The subject be- 
came almost a source of disputes between them; 
for Temple’s friendship was full of faithfulness 
and truth. 

Temple’s heart had sunk within him whem he 
discovered the lamentable weakness and irresolu- 
tion, even of purpose, by w hich Augustine w as 
still enslaved. He had been hoping for some days 
that his friend had set about a reform in good 
earnest, and his hopes had been greatly raised at 
the beginning of that conversation; but they had 
been raised only to fall much low er. He had the 
best interests of his friend deep at heart; but he 
saw that he had been speaking to little purpose. 

will go home,” thought Temple to himself, as 
too much affected to speak, he offered his hand to 
Montague, and left him. ‘‘I will go home and 
pray for him: I have been presumptuous in hoping 
that my words would change him. A higher and 
holier power is needed for the work; but I had 
hoped, had prayed, to be the blessed means.” 


CHAPTER VIIL 


For a few days after their last conversation 
Montague neither saw nor heard of Temple. He 
wondered, but did not take the trouble of asking 
the reason. His health was quite restored, and 
with returning health the desire to follow his own 
evil ways also returned. He was, however, much 
mistaken in supposing that he had become utterly 
indifferent to every thing. His indifference was 
only confined to the inner man; for he paid more 
than usual attention to every thing connected with 
his outward appearance. 

One morning he was in a very ill-humour, 
having woke with ahead-ach, the effects of drink- 
ing too much bad wine at an inn dinner the even- 
ing before. His *gyp entered the room. ‘‘You 
may pick up those things,” he said to the man, 
(carelessly pointing to a heap of clean neckcloths, 
which he had purposely tumbled, and thrown up- 
on. the floor); “and tell that d d fool, my wash- 

erwoman, that she deserves to have her head bro- 
ken for sending me such a set of cloths: they are 

* Perhaps I ought to explain that a gyp is a college servant. 
The derivation of the word is the Greek for a Yvdturc.— G, 


Is this Religion ? 115 

as stiff as pasteboard, and folded half an inch too 
broad.’’ 

<<Very well, sir!” replied the gyp, coolly taking 
up the neckcloths. called this morning forth© 
parrel you expected by the mail; but there’s no- 
thing come.” 

^‘Nothing come!” cried Montague starting. 

Why, then, I have no coat to go out in this mor- 
ning ! What an infernal ass that Stultz is !” 

‘‘No coat, sir!” exclaimed the gyp, staring 
with astonishment; ^‘why there’s your blue sur- 
tout, and your green duck-hunter, and your 
brown coat, and two or three black and blue 
coats ” 

Augustine heeded him not: he was no hero to 
his valet-de-chambre; he was accustomed to ex- 
pose himself before his gyp and his servant, by 
the display of a violence of temper, wliich would 
have been ridiculous, had it not been pitiable. 
Indifferent he fancied himself to every thing! he 
was strangely mistaken. An ill-folded neck- 
cloth, an ill-made coat, a tight boot, could make 
him storm and rave with passion; and yet he had 
once been remarkable for a kindness of manner, 
that was almost courteous, towards servants. He 
was in the act of pacing his room, muttering his 
curses on those who had crossed him in the weigh- 
ty affair of dress, when a gentle tap at his door 
attracted his attention; it had been repeated seve- 
ral times. 


116 


Is this Religion? 


<<Come in,” he cried in a voice of thunder; and 
a quiet little old woman entered. <‘Well! what 
do you want ?” he said. 

^•I’ve a little note for you, if you are Mr. Mon- 
tague, sir.” 

<‘Well, put it down. Put it on that table, can’t 
you?” 

The woman did so; but she still remained at 
the door. “Is there no answer?” she said hum- 
bly: “if there be, PIl wait, if you please; for my 
master, poor young gentleman, is very ill.” 

“Who is your master? Who are you ?” he cried, - 
hastily snatching up the note. 

“My master is Mr, Temple, of Queen’s, sir. I 
thought you knew him quite well.” 

This was the note: 

“I am, I fear, very ill, my dear friend — ^tooill 
to leave my rooms. If you are well enough, will 
you have pity upon me, and give me the pleasure 
of your company for a short time? Yours, very 
faithfully, 

“W. E. Temple.” 

. “Tell him,” said Augustine to the old woman, 
(his voice and manner were quite changed), tell 
Mr. Temple that I will — what am I saying? I 
shall be with him long before you;” and rushed 
out of the room. 

When he saw Temple, hope died within him. 
A few days had made a fearful alteration. Tern- 


Is this Religion y 


iir 


l)le was sitting up, supporting his head upon his 
hand, and leaning over a book which lay upon the 
table before liim. He looked round when Augus- 
tine entered, and as he recognized his beloved 
friend, a rich but hectic flush dyed his hollow 
cheeks; and his large and usually bright eye, filled 
with tears. 

‘‘You are very kind to come so soon,” he said, 
in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper;” and 
he held out his thin trembling hand, and shook 
hands with his friend. 

“I had no idea of this!” exclaimed Augustine 
faintly. “How long have you been ill?” 

“Oh ! a long time, dear Montague. Tiiis disease 
has been stealing upon me for months; but I did 
not feel myself in danger till a few days ago.” 

“But you are not in danger — you cannot be in 
danger !” 

“Indeed I am,” replied Temple calmly; “I 
cannot hope to recover. My pliysiciah has been 
very kind. I begged him to tell me the truth; and 
he then declared that nothing less than a miracle 
could save me. I thank God that I am daily 
becoming more reconciled to my lot. For years 
I have not closed mine eyes at night without pray- 
ing, that I might he found preparing, and in some 
manner prepai’ed for death, at whatever hour my 
call should come: but now I feel an awful differ- 
ence between the preparation of my poor, imper 


116 


Is this Religion 9 


feet prayers, and the preparation which the body 
is ordained to feel when the reality of the pre- 
sence of death arrives. I suffer little pain, but 
am at times almost exhausted with faintness and 
languor.’^ 

will remain with you,” said Augustine, ^‘if 
I do not disturb you; but you were reading when 
I entered;” and Augustine’s glance turned towards 
the book which lay open on the table. 

Yes, I was reading, but you will not disturb 
jftie, my kind friend.” Then looking down to- 
wards the book, he said, ‘Tt is the best book ! I 
read no other now: I have often thought how hap- 
py poor Collins* must have been, when he put 
aside every other book, and made a New Testa- 
ment his only companion. Ifeel now what such 
happiness is.” 

For some little time Temple did not speak again. 
He leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes, 
and pressed his handsover the lids, as if the eye- 
balls ached. Then, insensibly, he fell into a gen- 
tle slumber. He woke smiling, and extended his 
hand to Augustine. 

have been dreaming about you,” he said, 
‘^my dear friend ! I never found a friend after my 
owm heart till I knew you. It is a consolation for 
me to feel, that if I cannot enjoy your friendship 
longer on earth, my death may be of service to 
you.”-. 


♦The Poct-H 


119 


Is this Religion? 

^‘How? I do not understand you, Temple. 
Pray do not speak thus.’’ 

^‘My words have a very simple meaning,” he 
replied. <‘Itis good for you, dear Montague, to 
be with a dying friend. You need to be moved 
out of the vain world, and out of yourself. I can 
say many things to you now (which, had I been 
in health), I might have feared to speak. Oh, I 
shall indeed rejoice, I trust, among the angels 
of God, if my words, now that I am dying, have 
that power given to them which they possessed 
not till now. You know that I am in sad earnest 
now. Promise me — say that you do promise me, 
that you will seek Jesus Christ, as your Saviour 
from sin here. Ah, if you donot,you will never find 
Him as your Saviour from eternal misery hereaf- 
ter. He who is long-suffering and full of compas- 
sion to the weakest and vilest sinner, if sought 
as the Saviour /i ere, will appear hereafter to those 
who have not sought Him thus, as the Judge to 
whom vengeance belongeth. The words He now- 
uses are, ‘Come unto me all ye that are weary 
and heavy laden w ith the burden of your sins, and 
I will give you rest.’ The words He will use to 
the wicked on His great and awful day will be, 
^Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, 
prepared for the devil and his angels ? I know, 
my own friend, that it is a difficult work to return 
from sinning unto holiness; but you must prepare 


120 


Is this Religion ? 


manfully, and like a soldier of Christ, for the 
combat in which you must engage. And to a no- 
ble mind, methinks, there is something inspirit- 
ing in the mere thought. There is an idea of 
Latimer’s, ‘honest Hugh Latimer,’ as he was call- 
ed, which I wish you to bear in mind: I do not 
recollect the words, but they are to this purport, 
‘That our great adversary takes little trouble, 
when he tempts those who live in the common 
practice and daily habit of sin. A little tempta- 
tion will keep them his: he holds them in his pow- 
er, by throwing his baubles and playthings before 
them. But when a person sets about a refoiun, a 
thorough reform of his heart and soul and mind, 
of his whole man, in deep, sad earnest — w hen a 
man sets his face steadfastly to do God’s will in 
despite of every hindrance— it is then that the de- 
vil brings forth all his choicest lures and most 
winning baits from the treasure-house of his temp- 
tations, and leaves no way untried to force him 
into the bondage of his hellish chains.’ ” 

The next day Augustine was with his friend at 
an early hour. He found him very cheerful. 

“My physician has just been with me,” he said, 
“and he has consented to what was almost my 
last wish. I long to see my own dear father and 
mother, and my darling sister, once more, before 
I go to their home, and I trust my home also, 
i^bove, I shall leave Cambridge to-morrow, and 


121 


Is this Religion? 

set off for my native village of Thursley. I know 
that this is a hazardous journey, my dear friend, 
and that I may sink under the fatigue of it; but 
my medical friend assures me that my remaining 
here can be of no service to me — nay, that change 
of air, if I have strength to bear the journey, 
may add a few weeks and even months to my life. 
I cannot help it, but I assure you I am full of 
hope as to the effect which my native air may 
have on my complaint. I begin to be restless and 
uneasy while I remain here. Will you, (I ask it 
as a favour, the last I may be able to ask) will 
you take so troublesome a charge, and set off with 
me to-morrow? I am hardly strong enough to 
undertake the journey by myself; and too poor to 
keep a servant. Will you arrange every thing, 
and pay the expenses out of my purse? And in 
case,” — here his voice faltered, but he soon re- 
covered himself, and continued, ‘‘Why should I 
not speak of what is but too probable ? In case 
I should not reach home alive, will you break the 
sad tidings to my poor father 

A few tears fell from his eyes as he said this, 
and Augustine could no longer command his feel- 
ings. They both wept in silence for some min- 
utes. Temple was soon calm, and spoke in a fir- 
mer and quieter voice than before. 

<‘No,” he said, thoughtfully, ‘‘not to my father; 
he is ill, too ill to travel; no, nor to my poor 
K 


Is this Religion ? 


19.-Z 

mother: but, dear Montague, go to the house, and 
ask for my sister. I can depend on her.’’ 

It was after he had made this very serious I’e- 
quest, that Temple said, ‘^My dear Montague, 
shall I offend if T ask a favour of you now ?” 

<<Oh ! no: how can you suspect me of being such 
a brute ? Tell me what I can do.” 

‘‘Those bills of yours!” replied Temple, timid- 
ly — ‘‘that list! will you write to your father and 
send it ?” 

“My own friend !” exclaimed Montague, grave- 
ly, “I will really attend to those bills: but only 
let me see you safely arrived at your father’s 
house: only wait till then — indeed 1 will.” 

Temple answered not but by a mournful smile. 

Augustine found no difficulty in obtaining an 
‘exeat,’ that he might take the charge of his be- 
loved friend; and together they set off for the lit- 
tle village of Thursley, in D — shire. They tra- 
velled by easy stages; and Augustine saw with 
delight, that Temple bore the fatigues of the jour- 
ney wonderfully well. They approached within 
seven miles of their destination. They had tra- 
velled nearly the whole of that day, by Temple’s 
particular desire, that they might not pass anoth- 
er night at an inn; and though the evening began 
to close in. Temple seemed but slightly fatigued. 
In answer to Augustine’s inquiry, he replied, that 
he felt no pain, and was very happy. He even 


Is this Religion ? 


123 


exerted himself, and tried to point out, through 
the dim light, some of his favourite objects in the 
scenery around them. The carriage turned from 
a winding lane, through which they had been pass- 
ing, and rolled onward over a road of level turf. 

‘T longed for this soft, well-known turf,” said 
Temple. “How 1 enjoy the hushing stillness in 
which we advance ! I seem almost to taste the 
pure freshness of this balmy air ! I am so happy 
to come hither with you !” 

He leaned his head upon his friend’s shoulder, 
and breathed so gently, yet so regularly, that 
Montague thought he slept. Again he spoke a few 
words in his soft, clear voice. 

“My memory is rather confused, dear Mon- 
tague. Could you repeat to me the twenty -third 
Psalm ?” 

Augustine remembered it perfectly, and repeat- 
ed it. 

The stars came out, and the crescent moon, and 
the dark-blue vault of heaven shone one soft blaze 
of light. 

“Who could look upward, now^,” said Temple, 
“and not believe ? <When I consider thy heav- 
ens, the work of thy fingers, the moon, and the 
stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, 
that thou art mindful of him ? and the son of man, 
that thou visitest him ” * 


Psalm viii. 3,4. 


124 


Is this Religion 9 

These sacred words were rather mu rniii red than 
spoken; and Montague felt a few tears fall on his 
hand. He, how^ever, said nothing, but clasped 
the hand of his friend, and felt the pressure gent- 
ly returned. But soon after, some strange mis- 
givings rushed into his mind. He called to the 
post-boy to stop — he was alone with a lifeless 
body ! 

^ ‘Where shall I drive, sir ?’’ said the post-boy 
—■“to Thursley 

“Oh! no: not to Thursley now. Is there no 
quiet little inn near this very place ?” 

There was — and thither Augustine directed the 
man to drive, while he supported the corpse in 
his own arms, as tenderly as if its immortal ten- 
ant had been still inhabiting there. 

Montague thought at first, that he would go on 
to Thursley that evening; but as Temple (when 
he wrote to signify his return home to his parents), 
had not named any particular day, he judged it 
better to let them pass another night without 
learning their sad loss. He also felt, that with- 
out rest he should be scarcely equal to the mourn- 
ful offices he had engaged to perform. His own 
health and spirits had been much tried by his con- 
stant anxiety, and the unvaried attentions which 
he had paid to his poor friend; for he had passed 
the two previous nights^by the bedside of his be- 
loved Temple. 


Is this Religion';^ 


125 


The next morning, before he set out to Thurs- 
ley, he entered the little upper chamber, in which 
tliey had laid the corpse. Its walls were white- 
washed, and its furniture very rude and simple; 
but its stillness and cheerfulness made it the very 
place in which Augustine would have chosen to 
leave the body of his dear and faithful friend. — 
The small, angular bay window looked out upon 
a green meadow, through which a shallow river 
gurgled over its stony bed; and in that quiet cham- 
ber few sounds were beared without, except the 
natural and monotonous music of the stream, or 
the tinkling of a sheep-bell from the wide heath 
beyond. Prints ('such as the pedlers carry about 
M ith them) were hung around the room. Augus- 
tine would scarcely have noticed them, had not 
his attention been arrested by one of tliose circum- 
stances, which (however common in themselves) 
often make a deep impression on the heart. The 
window being partly darkened, a soft gloom pre- 
vailed throughout the room, except that a bright, 
broad flood of sunshine streamed through one side 
of the window over the bed on which the corpse 
was laid, and falling on the wall beyond it, play- 
ed over one of the little pictures. Augustine half 
unconsciously went up to the picture: it represent- 
ed the prodigal son, his garments in rags, his 
face haggered, his head bowed down with shame; 
but his father’s arms were supporting him, and 
K 2 


126 


Is this Religion ? 


he was received with the kiss of love and peace. 
Under the print were the well-known words, — 
<And when he was yet a great way off, his father 
saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell 
upon his neck, and kissed him.’ And when Au- 
gustine thought upon the words, and marked how 
the sunbeam passed onward over the corpse of his 
dearest friend, and silently pointed out the prodi- 
gal’s return, he knelt down weeping by the cold 
body, and prayed that his stony heart might be 
taken away. 

Augustine took a little boy as his guide, and set 
off across the heath to Thursley. He had often 
heard his friend Temple describe his favourite 
scenery; and as he walked along, and looked 
around him, he did not feel quite a stranger there, 
though he sighed deeply, as he thought that he 
could never walk there with that dear departed 
friend. The little path, after crossing several 
hills of wild and rugged heath, led into a very 
narrow lane, the sides of which were steep and 
high, covered in many places with patches of 
gorse, then rich with golden blossoms. After 
winding along for some hundred yards, the lane 
was terminated by meeting a broader lane at right 
angles. At this spot a little babbling brook flow - 
ed across the road. Augustine stopped on the 
little bridge over this brook; for he was struck 
by the picturesque appeai’ance of an old and ruin- 


Is this Religion? 127 

ous house. It appeared to have been at one time 
a spacious mansion, probably the abode of some 
person of wealth or distinction, though only part 
of a massy stone wall and a broad gable end were 
standing. But his attention was more particu- 
larly fixed, when a window above the porch was 
opened, and the casement fastened back by a 
young female. He saw tliat she was a gentlewo- 
man by her elegant, yet perfectly simple dress; 
but the sweetness of her smile, and the calm love- 
liness of her whole countenance, reminded him 
instantly of the fine benevolent expression of his 
friend Temple. Augustine turned to his young 
guide, as the maiden quitted the window; but the 
boy understood him before he could speak, and 
informed him that the young Miss at the window 
was good Parson Temple’s daughter. 

<‘The Parsonage is farther on,” said the boy; 
and they walked forward. 

As they advanced, the lane widened, and assu- 
med a more picturesque character. The banks 
became abrupt walls of sand rock; their sides, in 
some places rough with the old twisted roots of 
the trees, whose branches interlaced above, or 
gay with the green shining leaf and scarlet ber- 
ries of the holly, and long trailing garlands of 
luxuriant ivy. In one place a little rustic bridge 
formed a footpath over the lane, from one side to 
the other. At this spot Augustine dismissed his 


128 


Is this Religion 


little guide; for the view opened upon tlie parson- 
age-house, an old building near the entrance of 
the lane, presenting three quaintly-carved gable 
ends to the road. 

Augustine lingered about within sight of the 
parsonage, till he observed Miss Temple pass 
along down the lane and enter; and then, with a 
beating heart and trembling hand, he rang the 
bell at the door of the parsonage, and, witliout 
giving in his name, requested to see Miss Tem- 
ple. 

Augustine was led into a library, or rather 
study, looking towards the back of the house. — 
The first thing that struck his view was a sketch 
of his late friend, the size of life. The resem- 
blance was very true to what Temple had been 
wlien Montague first met him. He was standing 
before this portrait when Miss Temple entered 
the room. Siie turned inquiringly to Augustine, 
who declared his name. 

She looked at him steadfastly for a few mo- 
ments, and then said, “Surely 1 sec my brother’s 
friend, his favourite friend !” 

Before he could reply, she begged him to tell 
her how lie had left her brother. His look must 
have told her more than he intended it should; for 
the fine animation of her countenance died away 
as soon as she had spoken. 

“Is he very ill ?” she said, and hesitated to say 
more. 


Is thi^ Religion ? 


129 


begged me,” replied Montague timidly, 
^‘if during his journey hither, I had any bad news 
to communicate to his family, not to see his fa- 
ther at first, nor his mother, but to inquire for your- 
self. He assured me that you would find strength 
of mind, not only to hear the worst, but gently 
to break it to his parents.’^ 

While Augustine spoke, slie sat motionless, ex- 
cept that once she clasped her hands closely, as 
they rested on lier lap^ and once or twice she rais- 
ed her face upwards; and in doing so, the large 
tears fell heavily from her eyes. She spoke, and 
a slight convulsive motion, somewhat like a smile, 
but not a smile, disturbed her calm features. 

know it all! — his spirit has left us I— I ex- 
pected nothing elser yet it would have boon a com- 
fort to have seen the look of love in his niild eyes, 
and heard once again his sweet voice. But I am 
sure,” she said, firmly, ^‘1 am now sure, it is 
best otherwise.” 

Again she looked upward, and her lip moved, 
perhaps in prayer. Then taking out her hand- 
kerchief, she quietly wiped her eyes, and turned 
to Augustine. 

‘T am sadly confused now, Mr. Montague,” 
she said; ‘‘but, with God’s gracious aid, I will do 
all that my own dear brother expected of me.” 

But on mentioning her brother, her fortitude 
failed her. “Will you forgive my leaving you, 
sir?” she said, with a very faltering voice, and 


130 


Is this Religion f 


rose up; but almost immediately she returned to 
her seat, and with a calmer voice, said, “I ought 
not to detain you hei^e. Will you tell me when 
he died, and the circumstances of his death ? I 
think they were such that I may comfort my dear 
father and mother with them, w hen I tell them of 
our loss. You may tell me all i’’ she said, obser- 
ving tliat Montague delayed to do so. 

He related to her every little circumstance of 
his friend’s illness and death. The sister seem- 
ed to forget her grief, as she listened with intense 
interest to every w oi'd he uttered. When he had 
finished, she held out her hand to him, and 
thanked him warmly; but in the midst of her 
thanks, her composure forsook her, and she burst 
into a violent flood of tears. As soon as she was 
a little composed, she rose, and accompanied him 
herself to the house door. 

<‘You will excuse my not ringing for our old 
servant,” she said; “for she knows nothing yet, 
and her grief might betray the truth to my father 
before I have endeavoured to prepare him.” 

Augustine begged to know if there was not any 
thing he could do for her. 

“You shall hear from me very shortly,” she 
replied — “nothing just at present — Yes! will you 
offer up your prayers for us ?” 

Montague turned slowly from the door, mar- 
A^elling at the firmness, the calm and pious firm- 
ness, of a girl so very young and feminine. 


CHxiPTER IX. 


Montague could not find it in his heart to re^ 
fuse the invitation which he received, to remain 
a short time at the parsonage. He was pleased 
with every thing, and every one he saw. There 
was no repulsive gloom in their grief: there was 
hope, and almost happiness, in it. When a death 
happens in many families, they seem to feel only for 
the body; and with horror and grief muse over the 
narrow coffin, and the corruption within it; and 
the grave, filled up with black damp earth — be- 
neath which lies, at all hours and during all sea- 
sons, the same form that they have daily seen in 
the warmth, and cheerfulness, and comfoi*t of 
their own pleasant home. 

But in this secluded parsonage the death of one 
of its dearest inmates w^as felt very differently. 
There was a blank, certainly. There were 
books, and papers, and many other things, which 
had lost tlieir ow ner, which none could claim as 
their own, but which every one loved and valued. 
There were mistakes made about the merest tri- 
fles, which could not have been made, had not he 
who caused them, been missing; and such mistakes 


13S 


Is this Religion? 


pierced through the soul like a sword for a mo- 
ment, or brought bitter tears into the eyes. But 
amid all that natural grief, which every human 
being must feel, the prevailing feeling was not 
grief. The bereaved family seemed to look upon 
themselves as honoured; nay, as if their house had 
been sanctified. They believed — they were al- 
most confident, that death to tlie body of their be- 
loved one, had been freedom and glory to his soul. 
You might see how fully tliey agreed with St. 
Paul, “that it was far better to be absent from 
the body and present with the Lord.” Every 
thing went on throughout the house, the every day 
duties of all were attended to as usual: tliey knew^ 
til at idleness would have been then a dangerous 
luxury to them. But they never shunned the sub- 
ject of their loss; they never met together, with- 
out speaking of their beloved William. They 
spoke of his early childhood; they traced up the 
whole course of his short life; and his parents 
blessed his memory : and all wept sweetly over it. 

Mr. Temple was a middle-aged man, with 
plain manly habits, and quiet manners. There 
was something about the shape of his head, and 
the colour of his features, which told that he must 
have been in his youth not commonly handsome; 
hut the expression of his countenance was far 
more beautiful than the noblest regularity of fea- 
tures. He united, what is rarely united, an un 


Is this Religion? 


13.3 


deviating habit of speaking the simple truth, with 
stV'cetness and even courteousness of manners. 

Mrs. Temple was mild and rather reserved. — 
She spoke very seldom, but her remarks were al- 
ways distinguished by good sense; and she seem- 
ed to possess a temper which nothing could ruffle. 
She was one of those characters which it is almost 
impossible to describe; for there was nothing stri- 
king in her opinions or manners, — nothing but a 
total absence of display and affectation. 

Charlotte Temple was but 1 shall not at- 

tempt to describe her. You may know something 
of her, yet vei*y little, from the remaining pages 
of this narrative. 

Augustine’s eyes began to open to the power of 
religion while he resided with the family of this 
honest country parson. He saw no proud nor 
haughty looks; he hear^ no angry disputes — no 
petty bickerings. They all seemed anxious to 
keep up a unity, — a oneness of spirit in the bond 
of peace; and tj^t spirit vvassouglit, and supplied 
daily from the same fountain of eternal wisdom 
and goodness. It was with them truly a life- 
giving spirit; and he was surprised to see ,how 
the noble lessons of Scripture, daily read and 
prayed over among them, were realized all thro’ 
the day in their practice. He scarcely knew 
what induced him to linger day after day at the 
Parsonage, where almost the only society he 


134 


Is this Religion ? 


enjoyed was that of a grave clergyman and his 
wife and daughter: but he certainly did find a 
positive enjoyment in their society. He felt that 
at last he had a home, and friends, with whom 
lie could live in unconsti*ained confidence. There 
are some persons with whom we can be better 
acquainted after residing in their society for a 
few weeks, than w ith others w horn we have known 
for many years; and such were the Temples to 
Augustine. Their grief and his owui at the death 
of AVilliam had roused him to a species of exer- 
tion very different from any he had experienced 
before. He had found himself, ere he was aw^are, 
bringing forward powers of conversation of which 
he was before unconscious, and paying all the 
nameless and delicate attentions of a grateful and 
affectionate child to his parents. Nay, he had 
become, in some manner,, as a brother to the pure- 
minded and modest Charlotte. Even tlie religion 
of the Temples w as interesting to him. He con- 
fessed to himself, that he had at l^t found true re- 
ligion; and he felt that they were not only sin- 
cere, but sincere according to the truth. They had 
neither cant in their conversation, nor display in 
their conduct. 

About a fortnight after the funeral of William 
Temple, the family were all assembled to morn- 
ing prayers. Mr. Temple had opened the Bible, 
and began to read, when the door slowly opened^ 


Is this Religion ? 


135 


and a young and pleasing looking girl entered 
the room. She laid her finger on her lip, when 
Mr. Temple lifted up his head and looked on her, 
and timidly stealing towards the side of the apart- 
ment where Charlotte Temple was sitting, she 
smiled, and sat down beside her, taking the hand 
of her friend as she did so; and clasping it affec- 
tionately within her own. When the devotions 
of the morning were finished, the young lady 
turned to Mi^. Temple, and said, am come a 
self-invited guest, and I hope you can receive me, 
my dear ma’am. 1 have taken the opportunity 
(as tliey are all gone to a public breakfast) of en- 
joying the society of dear Charlotte.” 

“We are very glad to see you at any time, my 
dear Miss Neville,” replied Mrs. Temple. 

But Augustine remarked that there was not the 
same eager delight in the manner of any of the 
Temple family towards her, as there was in that 
©f Miss Neville towards them. 

“You look very well, my dear Sophia,” said 
Charlotte; “1 heard you had been ill.” 

Not exactly ill,” she replied, sitting down near 
Mr. Temple as she spoke, and turning to him, 
“but my health and spirits have been much affect- 
ed by some little differences which have occurred 
among us. I find my situation at times very un- 
pleasant.” 

“I am really sorry to hear you say so,” replied 


136 


Is this Religion ? 


Mr. Temple^ <<you seem to me to be placed in 
circumstances where no uncommon degree of dis- 
cretion is needed.’^ 

Miss Neville scarcely heeded this remark, but 
continued, ‘‘My father was very angry with me, 
because last Lord’s day I happened to say, that 
Mr. Butler did not preach the gospel, and that I 
could not hear him any longer. I had agreed 
with Miss Palmer to accompany her to meeting 
in tlie evening; and my mother (who had desired 
me not to go) met me, as I was stealing quietly 
Tip the back stairs to my room. I happened to 
be nearly wet through, for a heavy rain was fall- 
ing as I walked home. My disobedience was re- 
ported to my father, and his anger against me 
was very violent indeed. It is a hard thing to 
find foes in one’s own household — ^to meet with 
persecution from my own family; but it is no doubt 
good for me to be thus afiiicted; w e know that the 
I’eproach of Christ has not yet ceased.” 

Miss Neville said this with the air of a mar- 
tyr, turning her eyes alternately towards Mr. 
and Mrs. Temple and Charlotte, as if to ask a 
tender sympathy from them. There w as, how^- 
ever, no expression of sympathy in Mr. Temple’s 
countenance, as he replied in a quiet and very se- 
rious manner, “The reproach of Christ is not to 
be so lightly spoken of. I am sorry to say that 
many persons are too ready to bring almost a just 


Is this Religion ? 


137 


persecution upon themselves by their own un- 
guarded and injudicious conduct; and having done 
so, they find it much easier to take shelter under 
what they call ‘suffering for the cross of Christ,’ 
than to use their common sense, and examine in- 
to their conduct, and its motives, and confess the 
blame which attaches to themselves. My dear 
young lady,” he continm^d, looking kindly upon 
her, “I wish to be your friend. I fear for you, 
for I think you are in danger.” 

“But why ! — how ! my dear sir ?” and she lean- 
ed her arm on tlic table, and stretched forward her 
neck, much embarrassed, the colour deepening in 
her cheek as she spoke. 

“It lias been said,” he replied, “that it is dan- 
gerous to put up a sail without taking sufficient 
ballast into the vessel. Are you not putting up 
the sail of a high profession, and forgetting that 
the ballast of a humble spirit, and a charity which 
never faileth, is absolutely necessary ? It is to 
little purpose that we discover what is correct in 
Christian knowledge, if that knowledge is not 
accompanied by Christian practice. Your pa- 
rents are persons well acquainted with the world. 
You are, doubtless, not the first young enthusiast 
they have heard of; and I would have you beware, 
lest, instead of inducing them to adopt your sen- 
timents, you are the unwilling means of strength- 
ening their prejudices against genuine and vital 
religion. 

L 2 


138 


Is this Religion ? 


<^But are we not told to expect that the parent 
shall rise against the child, and the brother 
against the sister ? Surely the w ords of our Sa- 
viour will be realised;’’ 

‘‘They often have been,” he replied^ “nor will 
they ever cease to be, but not so often, nor in the 
same degree, in a nation of professed Christians, 
as among the converted few in a heathen country. 
I have often imagined with what an assurance of 
comfort those passages of scripture may be read 
by some young and feeble Indian, the only Chris- 
tian in her family ! How sweetly they must teach 
her to look upon the bitter persecutions she en- 
dures from the dearest persons of her owm house- 
hold, as her appointed lot ! I do not say that 
such persecution has ceased here, among us. Yet, 
in such a case as yours, an ardent and inexperi- 
enced spirit is often most in fault.” 

“Then, sir, I suppose, ’’said Miss Neville, with 
a slight tone of impatience, “I suppose you would 
have me conform to all their worldly and sinful 
practices, in obedience to my parents, who are, I 
am grieved to say so, dead, quite dead, as to any 
spiritual life? You would have me disown our 
holy faith, and Jesus the mediator of the new 
covenant That sweet hymn, which your daugh- 
ter Charlotte first put into my hands, has taught 
me, 1 trust, my duty better; 

** Ashamed of Jesus! Can it be?*’ 


Is this Religion? 


ifes 

And so she would have gone on; when Charlotte 
interrupted her, fixing on her a look of mild re- 
proach. 

dea^r Miss Neville, you strangely mistake 
my father’s words. A little thought would con- 
vince you that you have given to them a sense 
very different from that which they were intended 
to convey. You know, that no words of his were 
ever spoken to bid us compromise in any way 
our belief in the blessed Lord. He w ould have 
us all come out from among the worldly and the 
wicked, and be separate; but he would have us 
also remember, that as the root of a tree is hidden 
in the earth, so should it be with our Christian 
faith; and as the stem and the branches of the tree 
are not hidden, but flourish, and blossom, and 
bear fruit abundantly in the face of day, so should 
it be wdth our Christian practice. A man would 
never remove the earth, and uncover the root, to 
prove its existence, and to show from whence the 
tree received its life and support. He would 
point to the fruitful branches and say, ‘‘They 
could not be seen thus if their root was dead.” 

“Charlotte, you are a good advocate to your 
father,” said the kind parson; “and before we 
quit this subject, let me tell Miss Neville of an 
instance which came under my own observation, 
in which a young girl conducted herself so ad- 
mirably, when placed in a situation very similar 


140 


Is this lieligion ? 

to her own, that her beliavioiirliad a blessed effect 
upon her parents, and their whole household. 
She was a young and remarkably timid girl,* but 
though born and bred in a very worldly family, 
she became, by some means or other, so deeply 
impressed with the truth of the Christian religion, 
that slic determined, with the grace of God, to 
live a lioly and Christian life^ and not to swerve 
from her duty for any fear, or foe any praise of 
man. I remember, as when tliey were spoken, 
her fatlier’s words, to me, after lie, had also be- 
come a serious and convinced Christian. ‘I can 
now mark my child’s first growth in religion,’ he 
said, drom the impinving influence it liad on her 
heart and- disposition. 1 often wondered what 
could make the dear unboastful girl so sweetly 
submissive to her mother and myself; so gentle 
and forbearing towards her brothers and sisters; 
so ready to forgive every one who had offended 
her; so simply strict in speaking and acting the 
truth; so uniformly cheerful; such areal comforter 
in affliction; so wise in the advice she gave; so 
sound in her judgment. The distinguishing grace 
of her character was humility, a genuine humili- 
ty, an absence of all self-conceit and display; and 
this was to me the more astonishing. At last the 
secret was made known to me. She ventured to 
decline obeying me in some request, which I now 
should feel it sinful to make. I insisted on obedi- 


143 


Is this Religion ? 

encc; but neither threats nor entreaties could 
move her. In a transport of rage, I commanded 
her to confess what could induce her to disobey 
me — to break the commandment to obey her 
father and mother. She tlirew herself at my feet,’ 
he continued, ‘and with a face bathed in tears, and 
clasped, but trembling hands raised towards me, 
she said: In this command, my father, your will 
is not the will oiowv heavenly and, there- 

fore, I cannot obey it. Were my obedience to be 
given, I should indeed break the fifth command- 
ment of our Lord God, wiiich is not written *obey 
thy father and mother,’ but honour thy father and 
thy mother. The obedience which a child would 
pay to the sinful command of an earthly father, 
would be to dishoncnir yiat parent.’ The father 
had the good sense and the candour to respect the 
principles of so meek 'yet firm a child; and those 
who loved the virtues of the young girl, gradually 
began to inquire into the motives, the principles 
from which they sprung. Thus were her secret 
prayers heard, and her unboastful piety blessed; 
and they who loved religion first for her sake, 
soon loved it for its own: like the youthful Daniel, 
she was brought by God ‘into favour and tender 
love with all who knew her.’” 

Mr. Temple ceased speaking. Every one 
present sat in silence; and Miss Neville appear- 
ed to tliink deeply over his words. At last she 


142 


Is this Religion ? 


turned to him, and said: am a poor deluded 

creature, and your words have brought before me 
many startling truths. Dear, dear sir, I can 
never repay you. But will you continue to ad- 
vise me? Will you become my kind and faithful 
guide?’’ 

would fain do more than this,” he replied, 
and his words and his smile displayed the gentlest 
affection; “I will pray, without ceasing, that you 
may be blessed with * that wisdom which is from 
above, which is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, 
and easy to be entreated, full of mercy and 
good fruits, without partiality, and without hypo- 
crisy.” 

The above conversation had taken place during 
breakfast, or Augustine, would probably have 
quitted the room. He saw also by Miss Neville’s 
manner when she began to speak, that she did not 
seek any private discussion. She belonged to a 
class that love to bring forward their difficulties; 
and would rather make a display before strangers 
than make no display at all. She was not, cer- 
tainly, aware that disjday was the great motive 
which actuated her; but how common is a deep 
delusion on such subjects in such a character ! 

In the course of that same morning Mr. Temple 
declared bis intention of walking out. As it was 


* James, ch. 3, v. 17. 


143 


Is thU Religion'll 

the first time that he had quitted the house since 
his illness, Augustine begged leave to accompany 
him. The good man shook his head, and smiled, 
as he replied, ‘<0 ! no, my young friend; 1 will 
not condemn you to so dull an ofiice. I walk very 
slowly, and have a few visits to pay, which 
would make the walk even more wearying to 
you.” 

‘‘Yes ! but you must accept Mr. Montague’s 
kind offer, dear father,” said Charlotte, “or I 
shall be obliged to leave Miss Neville, and claim 
my right to be your support to-day, as I always 
am.” 

“You are very kind to an infirm creature,” said 
Mr. Temple, as he took the offered arm of Au- 
gustine. “You often remind me of my poor boy: 
he w^as just as attentive and good, and would often 
■prefer my society (even w hen 1 was sick, and un- 
able to converse much with him,) to that of young 
and lively persons. We will go,” he said, “to 
an old couple, w lio were the especial favourites of 
my son William. You will be pleased to see 
them; and they will thank me for bringing to 
their house the friend of their favourite William.” 

As they passed through that part of the village 
nearest to the church, the door of a little lowly 
cottage opened, and there came forth a young and 
remarkably elegant woman. She stooped her 
head, to avoid striking l^erself against the low 


U4 Is this Religion? 

door- way; and, as she replied to some remark of 
the mistress of the cottage, Augustine observed a 
smile of peculiar sweetness beaming over her 
face. On perceiving Mr. Temple, she hastened 
to meet him. ‘‘1 am so glad to see you, dear 
Mr. Temple ! so very glad to see you among 
your villagers again; and 1 am sure we are ail 
glad 

Her voice and manner expressed more than 
her words; and Augustine thougld her counte- 
nance one of the linest he Ijad ever seen. After in- 
quiring with affectionate earnestness about Mrs. 
Temple and Charlotte, she turned from them; and 
Augustine eagerly requested to be told licr name. 
He was struck’ w ith the appearance of one so evi- 
dently used to the first society, and so distinguish- 
ed by her beauty and perfect elegance, coming 
fortli from a mean little cottage in that retired 
village. 

‘‘She is one, of whom you have heard us speak,” 
replied Mr. Temple: “the young countess of 

C- , a countess in her ow n right. Her domain 

of Fountain Royal lies just on the other side of 
these hills. 1 knew her excellent father very well; 
and I feel much interested in whatever concerns 
her. He died when she was about twelve years 
of age; and she w as then removed into the family 
of her aunt. Lady Arabella de Roos, who took her 
‘o i'aris, to educate her there. She left us, one 


145 


is this Religion? 

of the noblest and most ingenuous creatures I 
ever knew. She returned about two years since 
with the most fascinating and finished manners. 

I have heard many persons loud in their admira- 
tion of what they term improvement. I cannot 
agree with them. I could weep over the change. 
Fair young creature! she resembles, I have often 
thought, the young ruler mentioned in the gospel 
— undecided, and weak; yet, when Jesus looked 
on him, he loved him. She is one of the kind- 
est and most benevolent beings I ever met with. 
Doubtless, she has been carrying some little 
present, with her own hands, to that cottage.’^ 

Here he was interrupted by the woman to whom 
the cottage belonged. She came forward, and 
overpowered the weak voice of Mr. Temple with 
her loud volubility. 

“Pray walk in, good gentleman ! I wish to 
know your opinion, sir (turning to Mr. Temple), 
on a certain subject. I cannot agree about it 
with the minister of our meeting; and I took up- 
on myself to tell him so; but, dear me ! why, he 
made but a poor hand of his explanation ! Now 
Saint Paul says 

Mr. Temple listened to her for a few moments, 
and then said very mildly: “you are too fond of 
these questions, Hannah. I have often told you 
so; and ‘they do but gender strife.’ There are 
plenty of smooth places in the Holy Bible, where 
M 


14b 


Js this Religion 9 

we may find ^tlie author and finisher of our faith. ^ 
Why should you wander after difficulties ? Be 
contented with the study of those truths whicli are 
really necessary to salvation. If you become 
thoroughly instructed in them, by the teaching of 
the Spirit of truth, you will, before many years 
are past, know even as you are known, and all 
will be made plain and clear to you. You had a 
visit, I find, to-day.’^ 

yes ! from the lady. Poor thing !” (as she 
spoke, she heaved a dolefully deep sigh.) 

‘‘Why, what has happened cried Mr. Tem- 
ple. 

“Oh ! she is quite in the dark; knows no more 
than a child; wholly dead and lost, she seems.’^ 
“You speak very confidently, Hannah 
“Oh! I think I may say I know it, sir! Not 
a crumb has she for the soul; plenty for the body. 
Here she will come with a basket full of victuals 
and raiment, and she has got a rare show of fine 
words, but none of the right sort.” * 

“Hannah,” said the good clergyman, abrupt- 
ly, “answer me one question. Have you ever 
prayed for her ? Nay, take care what you say: 

I want only a simple ‘yes,’ or ‘no.’” 

“Why, no, sir, I don’t remember that I ever 
have.” 

“Then let me counsel you,” he said, solemnly, 
“as you seem to know so very well the state of 


Is this Religion ? 


147 


her -soul, to pray for her, and not to speak thus of 
her. You expose yourself sadly, when you ex- 
press yourself in such a way, not only in niy pre- 
sence, but before this gentleman, wlio is a stran^ 
gcr both to lady C. and yourself. Remember 
who has said, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.* 
How can you presume to speak so confidently as 
to the state of any person’s soul ?” 

“Why, as I said, sir, she has never a word for 
the soul. I did ask her, once, to go to prayer 
with me, when I felt very poorly; and I hoped 
and begged she would pray experimentally,^ but 
she only coloured up, and stammered; and then, 
asked for the prayer-book, and read a few prayers 
in a whisper. I am sure I don’t wish to find 
fault with the meanest vermin; for, dear me ! why, 
I am a poor, vile, lost sinner, and can do no 
good thing i” and she ran on in a strain of self- 
accusation which astonished even Augustine, used 
as he was to the same strain in Mr. Cramp. 

When she had ceased speaking, Mr. Temple 
said very quietly, “I do not like all this. You 
seem to know a great deal, but I cannot perceive 
in you the spirit as well as the language of deep 
humility. You talk too much. You would feel 
your sinfulness more deeply if you said less about 
it. I wish also to perceive more of that spirit of 
love, or charity, which hopeth all things, and be- 
* I suppose she meant ‘extempore,* 


148 


Is this Religim? 

lieveth all things, which never faileth. To tell 
you the truth, I think that you have considered 
yourself affronted by something which may have 
passed this morning between yourself and Lady 
C 

Well, sir! perhaps I have.’’ 

“And there is the cause,” he said, pointing 
through the window which looked into the gar- 
den behind the house: “I can guess by the swelled 
eyes and the sulky look of that great girl of 
yours,” — and he pointed to a tall awkward girl 
who was standing near a gooseberry bush, and 
cramming her mouth with the unripe fruit,— “I can 

guess that Lady C has been finding fault 

with that long untidy hair, and those dirty curl 
papers.” 

“Why, yes ! the poor babe w as sent home from 
school, and ordered not to go back till her hair 
was cut; and then, they took off the beads she had 
got about her neck; and they was give to her 
only yesterday by her godmother. Poor lamb ! 
I could not get her to take them off when she 
went to bed last night; but the school-mistress 
snatched them off in no time; and means to keep 
them till I go for them. Why ’tis cruel !” 

Hannah had been standing till now whei*e she 
could not see her daughter; but when she came 
forw ard and looked through the window, and saw 
the girl devouring the gooseberries, she suddenly 
screamed out, “Come in, child.” 


149 


Is this Religion y 

The girl filled her mouth again with goose- 
berries, and stared sullenly on the ground; but 
when her mother’s command was repeated in a 
sharper tone, she pushed the fruit with her tongue 
into one of her cheeks, which stuck out with the 
lump, while she bawled out, “I won’t, mother.” 

“You won’t; won’t you, you dirty hussy ?” 
cried Hannah, whose w^hole manner was strange- 
ly altered, “then I’ll make you.” 

The girl gulped down her great mouthful as 
she saw the door flung open and her mother ap- 
pear; and snatching for another handful at the 
bush, she jumped over, and broke down as she 
did so, some large ill-rooted cabbage plants; and 
made her escape into the lane. 

“That woman,” said Mr. Temple, as they 
quitted the cottage, “is in a fearful state. She 
has surprising head-knowdedge for one in her sta- 
tion; but I often fear that her heart is wholly un- 
touched. She reminds me of Talkative, in the 
Pilgrim’s Progress; who is described, if I remem- 
ber, thus: ‘Religion hath no place in his heart, or 
house, or conversation; all he hatli lieth in his 
tongue, and his religion is to make a noise there- 
with; yet he will give you an hundred Scriptures 
to support his opinion.’ You could not help ob- 
serving her untidy house and person, but you saw 
very little of her censorious spirit and violence of 
temper. I assure you that my heart often sickens 
M 2 


150 


Is this Religion ? 


within me when she comes up with her mouth full 
of religion. I have reasoned with her; read the 
word of God to her; prayed with her: but, as yet, 
no means that I have used have been blessed. I 
do earnestly hope that the time may yet come 
wiien she may feel that ^the kingdom of God is 
not ill word, but in power.’ But we will enter 
here,” exclaimed he, changing his tone, and lift- 
ing the latch of a low gate. 

The cottage which they now approached was 
part of an ancient and once spacious house, which 
had been divided and let out in small tenements 
to the poor. The old pair occupied a few cham- 
bers at one end, where a broad gable faced the 
road, the peaked summit of which, and the beams 
and casement frames, were all richly carved. — 
They entered what appeared to have been a large 
hall, where an old woman was seated at her spin- 
ning-wheel. Notwithstanding her extreme age, 
her skin was smooth and fresh, and she sat quite 
erect in her high-backed chair. Her husband, a 
tall fine-looking man, whose white hair fell in 
waves almost to his shoulders, had risen to turn 
the hour-glass upon the wide window-sill. The 
room might, at times, be dark and gloomy, but 
then the noon-day sun shone through the case- 
ment, and poured a soft glow of golden light over 
the whole spacious room. Augustine was pleas- 
ed to observe with what true delicacy the old 


151 


Is this Religion ? 

couple hesitated to speak of William till Mr. 
Temple mentioned him. The old man had kept 
his eyes fixed upon the open Bible which lay on a 
table. His wife made many attempts to converse, 
but her weak voice faltered, and tears trembled 
in her eyes. She was assured, however, by the 
calmness and resigned cheerfulness of Mr. Tem- 
ple’s manner, and then she began to ask many 
questions. 

<^Ah i” she said, (when the happy father had 
related to her many circumstances of his son’s 
illness and deatli) ^^how little I thought that he 
would so soon dej)art from among us. How 
fresh and lively he used to look as he came in by 
that door ! his very voice was enougli to cheer one ! 
Many a time has he sat down between my hus- 
band and me, on that low stool, and read to us 
God’s precious promises; and taken such trouble 
to make it all clear to us. But it will not be long 
I trust, before I and my good man meet him 
again. I trust we have a good hope, through the 
Lord Jesus; and we sit here waiting every day 
for our call. We have done with the world; and 
as our treasure is laid up in the heavens, I hope 
our hearts are there also.” 

“I see that you keep the Bible from the dust,” 
said Mr. Temple. 

“Yes, bless the Lord ! ant my husband, who is 
a fine scholar, reads out a verse every now and 


A52 


Is this Religion P 


then; and I believe it will be a greater pleasure 
than ever to read, now he has got tliose beauti- 
ful new glasses, which my lady over at tlie 
Great House brought him this morning. To 
think of a grand lady like her remembering that 
he had only got one of his glasses left, and that 
was cracked; for our next door neighbour borrow- 
ed the old spectacles, and somehow set her foot 
on them. My lady came in last Saturday, just 
when our poor neighbour was telling me and be- 
wailing herself about it; and tliis morning she 
brought ever-so-many pair with lier own hands, 
and made my master suit himself; and then sat 
down and Iieard him read a chapter to me.” 

‘‘Has she ever read the Bible herself to you?” 
said Mr. Temple, “or s 2 )oken to you about your 
souls?” 

“Why I can’t just remember that she has; but 
then she is always telling us to listen to your holy 
teaching, and to look upon you as our best friend 
on earth : and when we were telling her how poor 
dear Master William and our Miss Charlotte 
came to read and pray with us, and how good 
and kind you all arc to us, 1 have heard her sigh 
deeply, and seen the tears gather over her bright 
eyes; and she told me this very day, that she 
wished she could lead such a life as you all do, 
and die such a deatlP^s your sweet Master Wil- 
liam did. God bless her! and teach her in the 


15S 


is this Religion f 

right way. Poor young lady ! She has a world 
of temptation about her; and ’tis more hard for 
her to know ‘the truth as it is in Jesus/ with 
all her riches, and her gay flatterers around her, 
than it is even for poor unlearned creatures like 
we, who see things as they are/’ 

When they had left the cottage, Mr. Temple 
said, ‘‘You see how the real disciples of the 

Lord look upon such a person as lady C . 

They have their master’s spirit; and it may well 
be said, that in them, ‘pity is akin to love.’^’ 


CHAPTER X. 


As soon as they returned home, Mr. Temple^ 
who felt rather fatigued, retired to lie down, and 
his wife attended him. — Miss Neville had taken 
her departure; and Augustine found himself alone 
with Charlotte. She was working very busily, 
and he took up one of the many books which lay 
upon the table and began to read: at least, appear- 
ed to read; in fact, though he scarcely moved his 
head, his eyes were continually raised towards 
the young maiden who sat opposite him. Per- 
sons may say what they please, hut there is an 
almost irresistible charm in female loveliness. I 
do not speak of what the disgusting sensualist 
would praise, but of that modest and indescrib- 
able something winch a person of manly feelings 
and of true mental refinement must admire. 
Charlotte Temple was not strikingly beautiful. 
Augustine had admired the expression of her coun- 
tenance from the moment he beheld her, but he 
had gradually discovered that no person had ever 
seemed so lovely in his eyes. Slie had that pe- 
culiar clearness of complexion w hich w ill make 
even plain features pleasing. Her eyes were the 


155 


Is this Religion ? 

most modest and mild he had ever seen^ and the 
shape of her mouth was such as we only find in a 
person ef a peculiarly pure mind. She was per- 
fectly feminine, and there was a delicate purity 
about her whole person, of which her very dress 
seemed to partake. — But it is useless to attempt 
any description of what would not be understood 
except by those who have met with a Charlotte 
Temple. There was another charm about her 
countenance in Augustine’s eyes. It resembled 
some lovely face which he had seen in his child- 
hood : he could not say where. 

As he sat gazing on Charlotte, it seemed the 
most natural thing in the world for Augustine 
to think, how happy such a sister would have 
made him ! and then, it suddenly occurred to him, 
that her husband would be a happy man; but who 
would that husband be? — why should not he? — 
what should prevent him? — He considered with- 
in himself, and he could discover no impediment 
to his marriage, no impediment that might not 
be removed. As he was thus musing, w ith his 
eyes fixed upon her, the book dropped from his 
heedless hand. 

Charlotte, w hose face had been bent dow n over 
her work, was startled, and looked up; her eyes 
met his, and, perhaps, his look perplexed her. 

^‘Have you been asleep, Mr. Montague ?” she 
cried, playfully. 


156 Is this Religim? 

<<0h! no,” he rejoined: <^only dreaming very 
pleasantly.” 

“About whom ?” she inquired. 

“About yourself.” 

“It were high time for you to be better employ- 
ed,” she said, and smiled. — “Will you wal^o up, 
and read to me while I work ?” 

“Certainly, I shall be delighted to do so.” 

“Any book that you please,” she continued: 
“that in which you were reading, if it pleased 
you.” 

Augustine replied not, for he had not even no- 
ticed the title of the work,* but he opened the vo- 
lume, and began to read. — “The joy of religion 
is an exorcist to the mind; it expels the demons 
of carnal mirth and madness.” 

“That remark is very just,” said Charlotte, 
lifting up her head: “it is like many other of the 
same writer, full of vigour and truth, and goes 
directly to tlie heart ” 

“He must be indeed happy,” observed Augus- 
tine, “who can feel, and at the same time ac- 
knowledge its truth.” 

“He must be unhappy, who cannot do so,” said 
she. 

“But I,” returned Augustine, “cannot; I have 
not felt it. The truth of religion I feel, and 
must acknowledge; and carnal mirth, and such 
madness, now appear to me as demons; but, alas! 
I fear that the joy of religion will never be mine.” 


Is this Religion? 


157 


*^Why fear that it will not?’^ replied she, 

^ ^rather pray that it may* It will not do to faint 
in our need: we must pray that it may be sup- 
plied.” 

‘‘Ah ! but you do not know what I have been,” 
he replied, despondingly; “though the friend, the 
chosen friend of your brother, I am as different 
fi*om what he was as darkness from light. I am 
a renegade, a wretched apostate from the faith of 
my early years. — You know not what a life I 
have led !” 

“I believe, I know more about you than you 
suspect,” she said, very mildly, looking down 
upon her work, for a deep blush mantled over her 
whole face. 

“How ! you surprise me !” 

“It was not surprising, that William should 
speak to his only sister of his favourite friend. 
It is now nearly a year and a half since he first 
mentioned you.” 

“I wonder how you could bear to notice such 
a person as myself,” said Augustine, “such a 
wretch as you know me to be, if your brother 
drew a faithful picture of my character and ha- 
bits.” 

“We have been used to esteem poor William a 
good judge of character; and he always seemed to 
think of you as one who had only strayed away 
from the happy flock of the holy and the good; 
N 


158 


Is this Religion? 

and who would soon find the pleasures of sin un- 
satisfying, and would return and repent.” 

^‘Alasi” replied Augustine, “he little knew 
iny heart i” 

“No,” said Charlotte, earnestly, “but he knew 
the power and the love of Him, who can soften 
and change the liardest hearty and doubtless his 
prayers were always offered for you, and they 
will be heard.” 

Augustine sighed, and spoke not for some 
minutes. At length he replied: “But I have no 
friend like William to pray for me now — unless — 
unless I might hope, that his sister could feel an 
interest in me, and pray for me as he did.” 

“Since I have known you, I have not ceased to 
do so,” she exclaimed, with much animation; 
“but it would become only an idle and inglorious 
spirit to ask for the prayers of his friend, and 
use neither prayers nor exertions himself. Since 
you permit me to express an interest in you, 1 w ill 
speak the truth, as a friend should, and tell you 
flow agreeably we have been surprised in finding 
you so unlike what we had expected: but it grieves 
us to think, that when you return to the scene of 
your former temptations, you may return also to 
those habits which will ruin you for ever.” 

Augustine fixed on her a look of grateful and 
ardent admiration as she spoke, and then his 
cheek glowed, and his eyes sparkled, and his 
whole countenance beamed with delight 


Is this Religion? 


159 


‘‘Let me carry with me the joyful assurance, 
he exclaimed, rapturously, “that one heart is 
wholly mine, your heart, my own Charlotte; and, 
believe me, all those liated temptations to which 
I have so often yielded, will become powerless — 
I know they will. Only tell me that you love 
me.” — Augustine would have gone on in the same 
straiii; but when he looked up, and gazed upon 
the young girl, he felt that he might be talking 
nonsense. 

She certainly did blush deeply, but she fixed 
her eyes on him with a look of unfeigned astonish- 
ment. “I will not seem to misunderstand you,” 
she said, “but I do indeed hope, that you will not 
again speak to me on such a subject. Would it 
not be rather silly in two such children as you 
and I, to think of marriage?” 

“But answer me this question,” cried he, eager- 
ly, “were our parents to give their consent, 
would you refuse to look upon me as your future 
husband?” 

“ I would rather not answer such a question; 
but you wish me to do so, and I will. I believe 
I should refuse — and yet,” she smiled, but spoke 
earnestly, “I feel no preference for any other 
person — I should certainly refuse. A husband 
should be the guide and the guardian of his wife; 
and I tell you the simple truth when I say, that 
at present, I do not think you love God sufficient • 


160 


Is this Religion 9 

ly, to love your wife as I expect, or, I should say, 
hope to be loved.’’ 

“You are cold and unfeeling,” he replied quick- 
ly: “Your religion has deadened you to every 
thing else.” 

Charlotte did not reply, but the fine colour 
glowed more deeply in her check; and tears 
trembled in her eyes and overflowed. She did 
not attempt to conceal her agitation, but said 
very meekly, “I do not deserve this, indeed I do 
not: you might have given me credit for feeling. 
I fear that you expect from me feelings that I 
have not; and will not assume. I have been 
taught to think, that love is something very differ- 
ent from that which novel writers, and many 
poets, have succeeded in persuading the world to 
regard under the same name. I do not quite be- 
lieve that it is a wild and irresistible passion, 
which must fill the whole heart, and often break 
it.” 

Augustine sighed. “Ah !” said he, “I see that 
you are a sceptic: you have never loved, yourself, 
and know not what others have felt; but what can 
disprove the fact, that many persons have suffer- 
ed from the passion which you speak so lightly 
of ?” 

“Indeed, I would not attempt to do so; 1 would 
only say, that I think we should all be unprejudic- 
ed by the opinions of others, and judge for our- 


161 


Is this Religion ? 

selves about that which is called, love, and not 
think it absolutely necessary to fall in love, be- 
cause even infatuated thousands have determined 
tlie question for us. I think we should be watch- 
ful over our treacherous hearts, and examine into 
the claim and title of every intruder, before we 
permit him to inhabit, much less to reign there; 
‘^And you would not love, theiir’^ 

Charlotte smiled archly, and said, ‘‘If I am to 
talk and dream only about one human beinjg; if I 
am to be melancholy and mysterious: and lack-a- 
daisical; if I am to be very selfish, and think 
more of the gratification of my own idle fancies 
than of the happiness of others, and to die broken- 
hearted sliould my lot be disappointment: — then I 
would not love. But I am no sceptic,^’ she con- 
tinued. ‘‘If the artless affection of Milton^s Eve; 
if the tender devotedness of the high-souled Ra- 
chel, Lady Russel; or, if you please, the fondness 
of Shakespear’s faithful Imogen be love: then I 
would wish to love. Of one thing I am sure, 
that true love must ennoble the heart where it 
abides. But I find I have no powers of argument 
to support my opinion. If you cannot understand 
me, I must consent to be esteemed cold-hearted.’^ 
‘^I must confess,” replied Augustine, rather 
drily, “that I do not quite understand you. You 
are, after all, as romantic, I believe, as myself.” 
Charlotte did not notice his remark, but said, 
N2 


162 


Is this Religion^ 


have often wondered at the change which the 
possession of each other makes in two high-flown 
lovers. I have seen the same persons, who be- 
fore their marriage, had eyes, and ears, and voi- 
ces only for one another; who would sigh and sit 
apart, and pine away, become strangely cold and 
careless, and even ill-tempered to one another, 
when there was, as persons say^ no longer any 
impediment to their happiness.’’ 

‘‘And will you give me no hope,” said Augus- 
tine, returning to his suit, “that, at some future 
time, you will listen to me ? Will you assure 
me that no rival ” 

He would have gone on, but Charlotte sudden- 
ly rose up, and laughing, held up her finger, as 
if to forbid him to speak. 

‘*Now this is really too ridiculous \ You still 
are making love after my positive declaration 
against it,” she cried. 

“And you will give me no answer ?” 

“No, I will not,” she replied, still laughing. 

“Ah ! I see how it is,” he added. “You can- 
not believe my promises of amendment. You 
only think of me as the poor, weak, sinful world- 
ling that has been described to you.” 

“Mr. Montague,” said Charlotte, and her 
voice, and countenance, and whole manner, were 
serious at once, “I do entreat you not to mistake 
me. I frankly tell you that you possess many 


Is this Reiigion? 163 

claims to my regard. My brother’s letters did 
not, as you seem to suppose, prejudice me against 
you: but you shall read them, and judge for your- 
self how your friend spoke of you. You will find 
a little rosewood cabinet in your chamber to- 
night: this key will open it. You will see there 
William’s letters to me. Read any of them. — 
They will interest, and may more than interest 
you; they may comfort and encourage you.” 

When Augustine retired to rest, he found that 
the little rosewood cabinet had been placed in his 
chamber. It was filled with letters and other 
memorials of his deceased friend. One packet 
lay at the top, on which was inscribed, “Letters 
from Cambridge.” Augustine read them all. — 
I shall not ask my reader to do so, but will only 
quote a few passages relating to him. 

EXTRACT I. 

“You ask me about my friends, dearest Char- 
lotte. I have not yet found one whom I would 
wish, from my present knowledge of him, to call 
my friend; if, however, I except one person, 
whom I have seen only three times. You like 
minute descriptions: you shall hear all about this 
new acquaintance. On my entering King’s Col- 
lege chapel for the first time, about a week ago 
{I will describe the chapel some other time), I 


164 


1$ this Religion f 


was struck by the appearance of a young man, 
like myself, a freshman, (you may know a fresh- 
man, or one just come up to college, by the fresh- 
ness of his gown). The day had been unusually 
cloudy, and a dim soft light mellowed down 
every object in the chapel^ when suddenly, and 
almost at the same moment, sounds, like the roll- 
ing of thunder, pealed from the organ, and the 
sun burst out, and poured a blaze of glorious co- 
lours from the painted windows above, full upon 
the countenance of a young man whom I had not 
before noticed. He w as standing by himself, and 
seemed lost in admiration at the rich and solemn 
music then filling the vaulted roof, and indeed the 
whole building, with sacred harmony. I never 
saw so fine a countenance. That purity, inno- 
cence, and sweetness, mingled w ith that serious 
thoughtfulness and manly fire, which we imagine 
in an angel’s face. Do not fancy any thing effe- 
minate. No one could have said, ‘He would 
make a very pretty girl ” 

EXTRACT II. 

<T was surprised and pleased yestei*day to meet 
the young man wdiose countenance had struck me 
as so uncommonly fine. He w as introduced to 
me by an acquaintance of the name of Tarver, at 
whose rooms we were. There is a modest and 


Is this Religion ? 


165 


manly simplicity in this Mr. Montague (for so he 
is named,) which is as rare as it is delightful 
among the crowds of young men one meets with 
here. He has been brought up, I hear, very 
strictly, and has known the Holy Scriptures from 
a child. We conversed together on many sub- 
jects: I say we, but in fact the conversation was 
kept up chiefly by him,* for I have not yet been 
able to conquer my oppressive shyness. I tliink 
1 should be inclined to call on Montague, notwith- 
standing my shyness, were it not contrary to 
Cambridge etiquette for a Pensioner to call first 
on a Fellow Commoner of the same standing: at 
least they tell me so, though I think the custom a 
very silly one.” 


EXTRACT III. 

^<You wish to hear more about Montague, but 
indeed I have little to tell you, for he has never 
called at my rooms; and lately I have not seen 
him in the society where we used to meet. I fear 
he is no longer what he was. I have passed him 
lately in company with some men, who liave the 
character of being not only gay, but profligate. 
I spoke to him once, and he blushed so deeply, 
and seemed so confused, that I have since rather 
avoided him. I cannot help thinking of him as 
a fallen angel.” 


i6G 


Is this Religion ? 


EXTRACT IV. 

long a time has passed since I last spoke 
of Montague, that you might probably tliink our 
acquaintance had entirely ceased; and indeed I 
thought it had, though I have always felt an un- 
accountable interest in him. Our acquaintance 
has been renewed; nay, we now look upon one 
another as intimate friends. Poor fellow^ ! he 
has been very ill: but, blessed be God ! he is now 
fast recovering. You will be surprised to hear 
that for some weeks not a day has passed in 
which we have not met. He asked for my friend- 
ship: he might have known that he possessed it. 
Dear Charlotte, he is not a common character. 
He has indeed strayed very far from the ha])py 
fold of real Christians; but liis deep, and, I trust,, 
sincere repentance, is very touching.” 

EXTRACT V. 

^^Alas ! I fear that my friend, my poor friend, 
Montague, is very w eak ! I do not mean as to 
bodily health; for he has now recovered his for- 
mer strength. Would to God I could see what I 
have been so anxious about — what I have expect- 
ed — a new and vigorous strength of principle ! 
I am too sanguine. His manner becomes daily 
more constrained in my presence; I find him 


Is this Religion? 


167 


sometimes surrounded by his former associates* 
Is it possible, that such ablessing from our Heav- 
enly Father, as returning health, should be ac- 
com])auied with so much fearful levity, such a 
forgetfulness of that tender Father ? 1 have not 

seen him for some days: I fear that he avoids me, 
expecting that I should upbraid him with his for- 
getfulness of the vows and resolutions made dur- 
ing his illness. He would not dread me, did he 
but know how full my iieart is of grief and affec- 
tion. O that I could but see him a decided, 
principled ciiaracter 

Augustine sat down, with the letters in his 
hand, and his thoughts wandered back through 
his past life. He remembered the child-like sim- 
plicity of his mind when he first left home.-— 
Pangs of shame and anguish shot through his 
heart when he thought how greedily he had fed 
upon the fatal fruit of the tree of know ledge. — 
‘‘Vows and resolutions I have indeed made,” he 
said to himself, “but to what purpose ? the hand 
that wrote these letters is mouldering in the 
grave, and I am yet where 1 was — yet the same 
unstable, hesitating child. It is indeed time to 
be a decided, high-principled character.” He 
remained some time rapt in deep meditation, 
then rising up, he opened his portfolio. “I must 
not let another hour pass away,” he said, “with- 


168 


is this Religion? 


out writing a full confession to my father.” — He 
was firm to his determination. Without one ex- 
cuse, he wrote a full account to his father of his 
excesses; of his rooted idleness; and of his debts. 
He did not ask to be forgiven: he said he coiild 
not expect forgiveness. He declared that he was 
willing to bear any privation-— any ‘ punishment. 

can only compare myself,” he wrote, “to the 
wretched prodigal. The dreadful famine has 
arisen in the land where I have chosen to dwell. 
I have, indeed, long ago begun to be in w^ant; but 
it seems that I have only now come to myself — ■ 
and what can 1 do, but cry, ‘that 1 have sinned 
against heaven, and before thee, and am no more 
worthy to be called thy son.’ It is not only to 
you, my earthly father, that I must make this . 
humble confession; for, if my sins and disobedi- 
ence are awfully great against you, what are they 
against my heavenly father? but 1 know what to 
do. If the story of the Prodigal has spoken in 
vain as a warning to me, I feel it to be now a 
sweet encouragement to my despairing heart. I 
feel that I am solemnly forbidden to despair, and 
called upon to arise, and go to my father.”— 
Augustine then spoke of his departed friend, 
Temple; he described the circumstances under 
which their friendship had commenced; he declar- 
ed his many obligations to Temple; he spoke also 
his illness; of their journey towards Thursley; 


Is this Religion 9 


169 


and of Temple’s affecting death. He conclud- 
ed by entreating that he might be permitted 
never to return to college; and begging that his 
father’s pleasure might be made known to him. — 
Having folded up the letter, he enclosed the list, 
which he had made with Temple’s assistance, 
of his bills, and which he had with him in his 
writing case, and directed the packet to Sir 
George Montague. 

^‘It is well that I have really written that 
letter l” said Montague to himself the next morn- 
ing. 

He had sat up till a very late hour, and 
awoke before day-break, fatigued and dispirit- 
ed. The excitement and enthusiasm which 
supported liim during the evening had died 
away, and, now, images of shame, and dis- 
grace from exposure, alone presented themselves. 
He looked round the chamber as he lay, and 
the dusk heavy shadows of a wintry morning 
(which the faint cold light made dimly visible) 
pressed like a weight upon him. He shut his 
eyes, and half buried his face in the pillow; 
and, in the dreary sickening of his heart, al- 
most wished that he might never wake again. 
But he did wake again, calm and refreshed 
by sweet slumbers; and the cheerful radiance 
of an unclouded sun filled the room. He had 
been awakened by the peaceful sabbath bells; 
O 


Is this Religion? 

and as he lay and listened to them, dear and 
soothing memories wakened witliin him, and 
filled his eyes with quiet tears. And now^ he 
thought no more of the disgrace of being exposed 
before man: ho sighed to think that he had cared 
little to sin under the eye of the heart-searching 
God; and he blessed God, humbly and deeply, that 
he had been enabled to make a full confession to 
his father. 

That day was, indeed, a sabbath to him. 
He rested in spirit, and was refreshed. He 
found enjoyment in the public and social ex- 
ercises of devotion, and to one w ho had for so 
long a time been hopeless and disquieted, such 
enjoyment brought with it peace; ‘Hhat peace 
which the world cannot give.’’ 

Augustine had purposely delayed sending his 
letter by the Sunday’s post: he wished to lay it 
before his venerable friend; and on Monday morn- 
ing, soon after breakfast w as over, he entered Mr. 
Temple’s study with the letter in his hand. 

•‘It is right that you should know me as I am, 
Hiy dear sir,” he said. “You know not what I 
have been; this letter will tell you. I will leave 
it with you.” 

When Mr. Temple returned the letter to Augus- 
tine, he pressed his hand warmly: he said but 
a few words. “May He strengthen, stablish, 
settle you.” 

The letter was sent. 


CHAPTER XL 


A DAY or two after, Augustine was surprised 
to meet his former acquaintance, Villiers. He 
was riding with the young countess of C— — , 
whom he introduced to Montague as his first cou- 
sin. Montague was charmed with the manners 
of tlie countess, and accepted, without hesitation, 
an invitation to dine at Fountain Royal, on the 
following day. 

Augustine ambled quietly along through the 
lanes and woods which separate Thursley from 
Fountain Royal. The night was chill and dark, 
and the hoarse wind swept by him, blowing the 
wintry sleet into his face. He was at once ush- 
ered through a suite of splendid apartments into 
the presence of the countess, and the change to 
brilliant light and warm perfumed air was almost 
magical to hi ml She was conversing earnestly 
with an old gentleman, one of the many guests 
with whom her house was filled. — The apartment 
in which she was sitting might have been called 
a boudoir, but that its furniture, though rich, was 
simple in its style, and there were few of those 
ornaments and trinkets which usually adorn a 


172 


Is this Religion ? 


■ - - “ ( 

lady’s boudoir. The walls were of a rich, but 
delicate shade of pale red, with very broad flat 
mouldings of frosted gold, all studded with bur- 
nished stars. There was but one picture in the 
room — one of Titian’s matchless portraits ! — a 
lady in a dress of green velvet; her soft auburn 
hair loosely gathered up with a golden bodkin.— 
She seemed young, but touched with some secret 
sorrow. The expression of her large hazel eyes 
was a soft melancholy; her cheek was colourless, 
but the rose-hues of her delicately formed lips 
were the brightest in the whole picture. A white 
rose was on her bosom, yet the clear skin seemed 
of a more pearly whiteness. Besides this pic- 
ture, were two busts, the size of life, placed on 
plinths of yellow marble. One, a female head, 
the countenance calm and regular, with vine 
leaves and clusters intermingled with the curling 
hair, and hanging heavily round the brow and 
delicate features, the clearness of the alabaster 
giving lightness to its rich masses. The other, 
a head of Psyche in Parian marble — a counte- 
nance full of mournful but intellectual loveliness. 
Tall slender tripods of the richest or molu were 
placed at regular distances round the room: from 
the summit of which, a soft but brilliant light 
was shed hy lamps of ground glass, in shape like 
ptruscan vases. Curtains of rich amber silk 
were looped back from the windows by golden 


Is this Religion ? 


ITS 


cords, and the windows all thrown open into 
what seemed an enchanted garden. Myrtles 
were there, tall and spreading as trees; and the 
common, but very beautiful geranium had com- 
pletely embowered one of the windows with its 
dark, fragrant leaves and scarlet blossoms. 
The shrubs and flowers, indeed, were not rare, 
but they were all healthy and luxuriant, and ar- 
ranged with an art which reminded one of na- 
ture. The red Provins’ rose and the Persian 
lilac were growing among hyacinths and lilies of 
the valley; and there were large beds of violets 
and pinks, and orange trees in full blossom. 

But if Augustine was struck by the costly ele- 
gance of every inanimate object around him, he 
could scarcely believe that he had ever seen so 
lovely a creature as the countess herself. With 
a form and features, slight and delicate in no 
common degree, she had all that fine frankness 
of expression and manner, which, in a person of 
refinement, betokens true nobility. Her hair, 
glossy and black as the raven’s wing, was part- 
ed high above her clear smooth brow, and a few 
natural curls fell even to her cheek: the shape of 
her head was remarkably fine, and what is call- 
ed, well placed upon her shoulders. Her dress, 
the produce of some eastern loom, was simple 
though uncommon, of the darkest shade of blue, 
stamped with a strange pattern of grotesque 
O 2 


174 


Is this Religion? 


figures and narrow waves of gold, the loose folds 
confined at the waist and wrists with a belt and 
bracelets of solid gold. She wore no other oi’na- 
ments, except a long and glittering chain of beat- 
en gold, with a cross of large turquoises suspend- 
ed to it. She turned gracefully to Augustine, 
when he appeared, and presented him to her ve- 
nerable companion. She then entered at once 
into conversation with them both, and Augustine 
became soon so interested in a discussion on the 
Italian school of painters, that when the countess 
ceased speaking, he started with astonishment to 
find that many other persons had entered the 
apartment. 

At dinner, he was placed near Lady C , 

buf; he turned round and gazed with astonishment 
on the lady who sat on the other side of him; and 
whom he had scarcely noticed before, when he 
bad been generally introduced to those present. 
She appeared between sixty and vseventy, though 
attired like a much younger woman. Lady Ara- 
bella de Roos might have been once a pretty wo- 
man, but memory and vanity seemed to have ba- 
nished truth from her acquaintance, and to have 
succeeded in persuading her that she was still 
both young and lovely. She had preserved a 
vsort of plumped-up figure, which was made the 
most of by her dress-makers; and over which a 
gown of some delicate and nameless shade of lilac 


Is this Religion ? 


175 


was shaped and fitted with such an uncreascd 
tightness that all its projections and recesses 
were most ungracefully displayed. Her arms 
were bare, and her neck and bosom most unpleas- 
antly revealed beneath the light pelerine of lace 
which partly shaded them. The head of some 
young foreign peasant-girl had probably supplied 
the rich bouffant curls which rose tier above tier 
around her face; and her poor old crazy liead 
was adorned with a profusion of blond and roses 
of the palest pink. But though Lady Arabella 
was so preposterously ridiculous in lier outward 
garb, Augustine was surprised and entertained 
to find her conversation full of shrewdness and 
anecdote. She had mingled in some of the choi- 
cest society of the times; had travelled much on 
the continent; had resided, indeed, at tlie foreign 
courts; and was thought a very agreeable, clever 
woman. In fact, she had some observation, 
great knowledge of the w^orld, and profound tact. 
But, had all the flimsy finery of her manner been 
removed, her mind would have been found fear- 
fully unprincipled, and her heart corrupted, and 
the whole bent of her thoughts and desires, to use 
the plain well-known vulgar tongue, turned to 
<<the pomps and vanities of this wicked world. 
And, alas ! she was the aunt and companion of the 
lovely countess, and had been her guardian and 
her guide from early youth. 


176 


Is this Religim ? 

think I had the pleasure of being acquainted 
with your grandmother, Lady Elizabeth Mon- 
tague,’’ said Lady Arabella (turning to Augustine 
with a smile) “a long time ago ! when I was a mere 
child. Is she quite well? She now resides, I 
believe, generally in London; but I have heard 
that she sees very few persons, and has quite given 
up the world.” 

‘‘Shelias, indeed!” replied Augustine. “She 
is wholly devoted to religious exercises. 1 think 
too absorbed by. them. She is, however, very 
charitable to the poor and friendless.” 

“All ! she is very good, I doubt not,” replied 
Lady Arabella, “and perhaps she is right after 
all. I was myself very much struck by what Irving 
said the other day about ‘coming out from the 
world.’ You remember his words, though I for- 
get them, dear Adelaide !” 

“What did you say, madam?” cried the coun- 
tess, who had been conversing with a gentleman 
on the other side of the table. 

“Do you recollect the words which Irving used, 
when we last heard him, about retiring from the 
world ?” 

“No, indeed I do not, though you know" I am 
a great admirer of Irving,” and she smiled as she 
said so.^ 

“You an admirer of Irving, Lady C. !” ex- 
claimed a grave looking man, with a harsh but 
sensible countenance. 


Is this Religion ? 


177 


that look and that tone/^ she replied, 
^^you certainly, are no^.” 

>‘No, indeed! am not; and I will ffive you my 
reasons.” 

“Ah ! I see we shall not agree,” she said, gaily; 
“so don’t attempt to turn me; for, to tell you the 
truth, I do not mean to change my opinion. I am 
prejudiced in my admiration.” 

“I am sorry to find Lady C. so infatuated,” he 
said, lowering his voice, as he addressed himself 
to her aunt; and Augustine heard the versatile old 
lady reply also, in a subdued voice, “Oh ! a mere 
whim of Lady C.’s ! It’s the fashion now to talk 
of preaching ! and, to tell you the truth, I’m 
heartily tired of preachers and preaching. There 
was that inflated fanatic, Malan, raising quite a 
commotion in Geneva, when we were there; but 
my niece had not then the curiosity to hear him.” 

Here her attention was atti acted by the loud 
emphatic voice of a young man in black, who was 
telling a ludicrous story about a Methodist par- 
son; at which every one laughed excepting Vil- 
liers and Augustine. They were both displeased 
by the manner in which the story was told. But 
the old gentleman with gray hair seemed con- 
vulsed with laughter; and he had also a story 
of the same sort to tell, though in a far better 
style. 

“Excellent! capital !” cried the young man in 
black. 


178 


Is this Religion ? 


do not quite agree with you, sir,” said Vil- 
liers. ‘‘Poor fellows ! I am rather inclined to 
believe those illiterate Methodists are generally 
sincere; and, however mistaken persons may 
be in their opinions, I always respect 5?' Ticeritz/.” 

“I must differ from you on that point,” said 
the white haired man; “I cannot think them sin- 
cere. It is their absurd cant I object to.” 

“Persons talk a great deal about the cant of 
religious professors,” said Augustine, smiling as 
he looked up; “but I think tliere is a cant almost 
as objectionable in persons who do not profess to 
be religious. What tliink you of the cant of sen- 
timent? the cant of the fashionable world, which 
if the most superior person does not understand, 
he is sneered at by the silly set? or the cant of the 
sporting world, which, though vulgar and low- 
lifed in no common degree, many of our English 
gentlemen pride themselves on using? Or, 
again, the cant of our schools of poetry, which is 
often sickening to plain common sense? Or the 
cant of infidelity (the most common cant of all,) 
and as pitiable and ridiculous as it is infamous?” 

But here the Countess, seeing a frown on 
several faces, thought it best to rise, and led 
away her train of ladies. But little wine, and 
that, chiefly claret, was drank after tlie ladies 
had retired; and Augustine, not being near enough 
to Villiers to converse freely with him, was 
pleased when their summons came. 


i5 this Religion f 


179 


“I am glad you are come,’’ said the Countess 
to Villiers, as the gentlemen entered the draw- 
ing-room; “for really (with the exception of La- 
dy Arabella, whose powers of agreeable conver- 
sation seem never to fail her) we have been all 
sitting like the ladies whom Corinne mentions in 
her description of an English party in the coun- 
try, scarcely opening our lips; and I must beg, 
tliat now the gentlemen have made their appear- 
ance, they will not herd together to talk about 
any subject which cannot interest us.” 

“Do not suspect us of such barbarism,” said 
Augustine, who was standing next to Villiers; 
“but if we should prove very dull, very nnenter- 
taining; rather believe that we presume upon the 
privilege you grant us in permitting us again to 
enjoy your society: for when a man enters a 
drawing-room, which is a lady’s territory ,. he is 
hopeless of amusing, and only hopes to be 
amused.” 

“Your presumption,” replied the Countess, “is 
meant to look like gallantry; but really, if our 
society is so very charming, it should make you 
forget your set compliments; and rather commu- 
nicate to you some of that power of entertaining, 
which you attribute to our sex. But do tell me, 
Charles she continued, in a lower voice (turn- 
ing to her cousin), *<what am I to do with these 
people ? I would have music, but then one must 


180 


Is this Religion 9 


listen to those three Miss Manvers, w hich indeed 
I cannot do in pity to my guests ! Lady Arabel- 
la wishes for cards.” 

‘‘Oh ! do not have cards,” cried Villiers, eager- 
ly; “or let Lady Arabella take three of the 
heaviest of the party, and retire with them to the 
solemn silliness of a whist table for the evening. 
Do not be so anxious to amuse your guests; leave 
them to amuse one another! Any thing but cards 
for the younger part of the company, dear Ade- 
laide! — See,” he continued, looking round, “they 
ai’e beginning to be very agreeable ! Lady J ulia, 
who looked half asleep when w e entered the room, 
has lifted up her fair head, and really finds en- 
tertainment in listening to that unwearied proser. 
Sir Richard N. And two of the Miss Manvers 
have opened that large folio of engravings. — 
Aye ! and hither comes the youngest, to flirt w ith 
me, I do believe.” 

Miss Dorothea Manvers was a slight pale 
creature, with a very timid manner, but a bold- 
ness and perseverance of purpose w hich nothing 
could daunt. 

“Dear Lady C.” she almost whispered, “are 
w^e not to hear your delightful voice to-night? 
Lydia has been so wishing for that charming 
song, ‘La plus jolie;’ she thinks you sing it quite 
as well as Caradori !” 

When Lady C. had declared her readiness to 


Is this Religion ? 


181 


oSey the wivsh of Miss Lydia, Miss Dorothea 
opened her large eyes, and simpered, and hesita- 
ted; and at length said, timidly: ‘^Only, pray 
don’t ask me to sing to-night ? I feel so very ti- 
mid, I don’t think 1 could sing a note.” 

Lady C. made no remark, but Miss Dorothea 
continued, (opening her eyes widely, and looking 
round like a startled deer) ‘‘at least, I’m sure I 
sliall not feel bold enough, till they are all attend- 
ing to something else. Ah ! I see Lady Arabella 
is arranging a quiet little whist party,” and she 
drew nearer to the Countess, and looked up in 
her face and said: “Mr. Villiers sings also, I be- 
lieve ?” and then she blushed, and clung to the 
arm of Lady C. and looked up entreatingl yto 
him; Villiers bowed, and smiled, and said some- 
thing which meant nothing. 

“1 always think that this is the prettiest music 
room I ever entered,” said Miss Dorothea, (as 
one of the footmen drew aside the rich crimson 
curtains, which alone divided it from the saloon 
where the company were assembled). She pass- 
ed through the stately arch, and entered the 
apartment with as much gentle fearfulness, as if 
she liad been stealing into some region which she 
had never explored till then. 

The room was surrounded by pillars of white 
polished marble, and seemed to represent an open 
pavilion. The concave ceiling was painted like 
P 


182 * Is this Religion? 

an Italian sky; the walls, between the pillars, 
were also painted by a master’s hand; and glow- 
ed with the rich and gorgeous colouring of Ital- 
ian scenery. There were the trees Claude loved 
to paint, with long waving festoons of the vine, 
hanging from branch to braiich, and groups of 
gay peasants dancing in the chequered shade. In 
the distance were woodlands, and blue shadowy 
mountains, all softened with the aerial haze of an 
Italian climate. On one side a valley opened 
upon the sea, where the small waves seemed to 
dance and sparkle with gladness beneath the gol- 
den sunbeams, while here and there on the very 
edge of the clear horizon, the eye caught a little 
snowy sail. 

‘‘Shall I sing ‘La plus jolie said Lady C. 
as she sat down to the pianoforte, and every one 
joyfully called upon her to do so. Her voice was 
peculiarly rich and powerful, but she threw a 
clear and delicate sweetness into every note; and 
gave to every little word a distinct and finished 
pronunciation; and sang with such a charming 
playfulness, that the hearer alternately wondered 
at the skill, and the perfect simplicity of the per- 
formance. When the song was finished, some re- 
marks were made on French romances. The 
Countess turned from the instrument, and an ani- 
mated conversation commenced on the ditt'erent 
styles of national music. Augustine tliought, as 


Is this Religion ? 


W 


he listened to the Countess, that he had seldom 
heard any one converse so agreeably. Miss Do- 
rothea, however, with all her timidity, was very 
anxious to prove to those around her how unwiU 
ling she was to sing; she had listened like one in 
a hurry to the conversation, and stolen at times 
a glance from under her languishing eyelids upon 
the music stool, from which the Countess had not 
yet risen. At last she took advantage of a pause 
in the conversation, and laying her hand on the 
arm of Lady C. she said, <‘One more song ! I 
know you sing Handel, divine Handel 1” 

^‘Indeed I could not attempt to do so to-night, 
replied the Countess. 

^‘Well then, that wild, melancholy air in Ni- 
na:” 

don’t know which you mean,” she said, 
'<but I assure you,” and she laughed as she spoke, 
^*I could not sing any doleful ditties to-night, I 
am in so mirthful a mood !” 

^‘But you will sing one more song ?” 

<^Oh ! certainly,” she replied. ‘^Give me my 
harp, Charles, and I will reward you by singing 
one of your own compositions.” 

Villiers placed the harp before her. The whole 
room resounded with the light and joyous pre- 
lude, as her fingers flew over the strings. Then 
suddenly she glided into an air that was almost 
plaintive; and she began to sing^ 


.,184 Is this Beligion? 

O let my wildly plaintive lay 
Those wayward, anxious thoughts beguile: 

Be calm — be more than calm, be gay— 

'Tis I who bid thee, Annot Lyle. 

Of former times my harp shall tell. 

You must — you will, attend the while r 

Dear Allan, you remember well. 

How you first met poor Annot Lyle;. 

You saw the boldest outlaws fall 
Around me in the dark defile. 

But heard the trembling orphan’s cry. 

And spared the life of Annot Lyle. 

Nay, Allan, do not murmur so. 

Let weaker minds their lot revile; 

Ay ! but you must one smile bestow. 

And join the mirth of Annot Lyle, 

No wondrous powers to me belong, 

I own no magic fairy wile; 

The clairshoe’s note, the artless song, 

Are all the spells of Annot Lyle. 

Vet, I have chased the falling shade, 

I see, I see the rising smile: 

, A’’es, Allan, I must be obeyed. 

You cannot frown on Annot Lyle. 

When the sweet song was finished, Miss Do- 
rothea was the loudest in her plaudits, and she 
leaned forward, and turned over the leaves of the 
music book, and spoke such little sentences as 


Is this Religion f 


185 


these, ^‘Ah, that is the most beautiful air ! — Do 
you like this thing of Rossini ? I am sure you 
sing this.’’ 

At last, however, notwithstanding many a 
pretty “yea” and “nay,” she was prevailed up- 
on to sing; and she sang with her sister. Miss 
Lydia (as most young ladies do), a very long and 
diiiicult duet, in which now and then such a word 
as “cor,” or “amore,” or “mio,” or “sospiri,” 
was just distinguished. An English song follow- 
ed, almost as inexplicable as the Italian. In the 
midst of this song, Lady Arabella and Lady Ju- 
lia entered together, and the former whispered to 
the Countess, that Lady Julia had come express- 
ly to ask Mr. Villiers to sing a Spanish song, the 
very song Augustine had been so delighted with, 
when he first met Villiers at Cambridge. Vil- 
liers was in high spirits, and he turned round to 
ask the Countess to accompany him. She had 
left the room. “I think Lady C is in the 

next room,” said Miss Dorothea. “I saw her 
steal away thither. I will go and bring iier back 
again.” 

Villiers bowed his thanks; for he could not well 
avoid replying to some remarks which Lady Ju-* 
iia Headingham was making. 

Lady C is so very sorry that she can- 

not come,” cried Miss Dorothea, returning; slie 
cannot leave the card table: but she has requested 
¥2 


186 


Is this Beligion? 


me to play the accompaniment for yon, Mr. Vil- 
liers ! She says I shall find the song in a little 
music book with a green cover. Will you be so 
kind as to look for it, sir ?” addressing Montague. 
<‘A little green book ! She said it was among 
these books. And she stooped down, and 
searched among a number of music books scatter- 
ed upon the floor. 

Perhaps Villiers was not pleased with Miss 
Dorothea as a substitute, for as soon as she had 
delivered her message, his countenance and man- 
ner changed; and although the accompaniment 
was very well played, he sang most wretchedly. 

When Augustine returned to the drawing-room 
he understood why Villiers had become vexed and 
melancholy so suddenly, and he no longer won- 
dered that his friend had so earnestly objected to 
cards. The Countess, as Miss Dorothea had de- 
clared, was at cards, and he could scarcely be- 
lieve, when he gazed upon her, that he beheld the 
same gentle, artless creature, who had even in 
her light playfulness seemed one of the most in- 
nocent of her sex. 

She who sat at the card table appeared a ve- 
ry different person. The restless glancing of her 
eyes — her impatient manner — her quick sarcas- 
tic words, were shocking to him. Her very cheek 
and brow were deeply flushed, and her bosom 
heaved with that feverish excitement which few 


Is this Religion? 


187 


but the wretched gamester knows, as she eager-^ 
ly gathered up the gold which she had won. 

He could not bear to look upon her; but as he 
turned away, his glance met that of Villiers, and 
he saw that his feelings were read. His friend, 
however, approached him. “Some of them are 
still in the music room,” he said. 

Montague followed him thither; but there, with- 
out exchanging another word, he grasped the 
hand of Villiers, and departed. 


CHAPTER XII. 


There was a small church about three miles 
from Tliursley, at the farther end of a little 
hamlet, in whicli Divine service was performed 
only once in the month. The duty was underta- 
ken by the minister of Thursley. For some 
months Mr. Temple had procured a substitute: 
but he was now, he thought, sufficiently recovered 
(though in fact he was still far from strong) to 
resume his attendance at the little solitary church. 
When Augustine awoke on the Sabbath morning, 
he saw that it was raining heavily; he settled in 
his own mind that Mr. Temple would not think 
of going to the solitary church on that day, but 
he determined to go. 

will not venture out on such a morning 
as this said Augustine to Charlotte, when she 
appeared in her walking dress. 

“0 ! yes, I am going, I assure you,’’ she re- 
plied. dp not fear the weather; besides. Fa- 
ther ! I am well fenced from tlie rain should it 
continue.” She replied to her Father’s grave 
remonstrances, and to Augiistine’s reasonings, 
with a delightful playfulness, and she went. 


Is this Religion ? 


189 


The vaults in this little church had been, from 
time immemorial, the burying-place of the C — — 
family; and before the service began, Augustine 
employed himself in surveying the stately monu- 
ments of the lords and dames of the noble house of 

• He was, however, soon called away by 

Charlotte, who pointed in silence to her Father, 
as he was entering the reading desk. The con- 
gregation, partly owing to the inclement weather, 
was on that day unusually scanty; but while Aii^ 
gustine listened to the earnest, simple pleadings 
of the aged pastor, and beheld the few poor wo- 
men who were alone present, wrapped up in their 
red cloaks, — every face turned with rapt atten- 
tion towards the holy man, as if they were fear- 
ful to lose the faintest accent from his lips; and 
when he glanced his eye upon the spacious pews 

of the C family, all unoccupied, and upon the 

cold proud monuments of their ancestors, he felt 
how true it .was that the poor had the gospel 
preached unto them. Mr. Temple did indeed 
preach the gospel of Jesus Christ, in the spirit of 
Him, ‘‘who spake as never man spake.” His 
hearers felt that he was himself deeply interested 
in all that he declared to them. His manner was 
grave, mild, and affectionate; but even on that 
day, with those few ignorant hearers, and in that 
little desolate church, as he reasoned with them 
of ‘righteousness, temperance, and judgment to 


190 


Is this Religion ? 


come,’ and entreated them to be saved through 
Him who is the only way of salvation, his voice 
faltered, and tears fell fast over his pale cheeks. 

“I could scarcely he]j) wondering,” said Au- 
gustine to him when the sermon was over, ‘Ho 
see you so agitated, in this little church, with 
only those poor ignorant persons. I should not 
have been surprised, had you preached in the 
midst of a large congregation. Dear sir ! I wish 
I could be like you !” 

Mr. Temple took his hand, and clasping it 
warmly in his own, “My dear young friend,” He 
said, “is not one soul so very precious ?” 

“Would you like to see the family vault of the 

C family ?” said Charlotte, observing that 

Montague had returned to the monuments. “If 
you would, I will ask my father for the key.— 
Here, take it,” she said (putting the large key 
into his hand), as they stopped before a low door 
of solid oak, braced with iron, on one side of the 
chancel, “I could not turn it in the lock.” They 
descended a few steps, and Montague unlocked 
the door. They entered a large crypt, the roof 
of which was much ornamented with gothic car- 
ving. One little narrow window, un glazed, but 
iron-barred, let a dim gloomy light into the vault, 
and faintly revealed the many rows of coffins. 

“This is an awful place !” said Augustine.— 
“What a short time, since the corrupting tenant 


Is this Religion 9 


191 


of that coffin/’ and he pointed to one on which 
the crimson velvet and the gilded bosses were 
still fresh and unsullied, and where the coronet 
glimmered upon the top almost as brightly as 
when it had been first laid there, “what a short 
time since the lifeless form w ithin was moving in 
all the splendour and the rank which now^ attend 
the present Countess ! I see by the inscription 
that this coffin contains the corpse of her sister, 
who has been dead scarcely three years. I trem- 
ble for that young and beautiful creature, w ho is 
now clothed in purple and fine linen, and lives in 
so many luxurious and sumptuous pleasures. I 
cannot bear to think of the time when they will 
bring hither that now radiant form. 1 cannot as- 
sociate her with this dark, fearful place, with its 
profound stillness — with its dead, icy chillness. 
1 never thought of her danger as 1 do now I am 
come hither. Do you imagine that she has ever 
stood where we are now standing, or even visited 
in thought this fearful place, to meditate on the 
truth, which few may heed but all must experience^ 
that our life is but as a vapour which appeareth 
for a little time, and then vanisheth away 

Charlotte did not answer — she did not hear 
him, — she was in deep thought, standing near the 
narrow window^ and Augustine felt, as he fixed 
his gaze earnestly on her grave sweet counte- 
nance, and thought upon tne life siie led— her 


Is this Religion? 


iH 

watchfulness and prayers, her neTer-failing cha- 
rity, her pure and living faith, that even from 
that charnel-house the mind might go back with 
her to the most joyous seasons of her mortal exis- 
tence, and not tremble for her. 

‘‘I almost wonder/^ exclaimed CJiarlotte, w hen 
the pause of their silence had been broken, ‘‘that 
any creature born to die can choose to bring all 
this pomp of velvet, and rich ornament, and these 
tokens of worldly rank, into the very chambers 
of the dead. Read this short epitaph. The humble 
stone is oddly placed, is it not and she point- 
ed to the window near which she was standing. 
Augustine stood beside her, and read the epitaph. 
The tombstone w^as in the church-yard without, 
but it had been by chance so placed that the in- 
scription presented itself full in the sight of any 
person gazing from the window of the vault be- 
neath. It w as from Leighton’s Commentary on 
St. Peter. ‘ , 


‘'The things are passing which we enjoy. 
And we are passing who enjoy them.” 


Augustine had looked forward, day after day, 
with much anxiety for his father’s reply to his 
last letter. At length the long expected answer 


Is this Religion ? 


193 


came; and, to his astonishment and joy, it con- 
tained not a liarsh word. His mother had not 
written, as he had feared she would — the letter 
was entirely from his father. It was serious* 
and expostulatory; but it assured him of his pa- 
rents’ forgiveness, and declared that they be- 
lieved the deep humility and grief which he ex- 
pressed to be sincere; and that they restored him 
to their confidence. His father highly approved 
his wish not to return to Cambridge; and said 
that he had written to his tutor, enclosing the list 
of his bills, to make arrangements for their pay- 
ment. He mentioned at the end of the letter that 
they were then at Cheltenham, and that his son 
might either join his parents there, or meet them 
in about a month from that time at Kirkdale Ma- 
nor. 

Augustine was deeply touched with the conduct 
ofiiis father. He knew that he had not deserved 
such generous treatment; and his parents saw 
from the letter, which they received in immediate 
reply, that their son’s heart was really humbled. 
All his early confidence flowed back to them; and 
even his mother confessed, that she was satisfied 
with the confessions and promises with which his 
letter was filled. She wept as, in language at once 
fraught with contrition and anxious affection, 
he entreated the prayers of his father and mother 
that the resolutions which in humble confidence 

Q 


194 


Is this Religion? 


he had made, might never be broken: that he 
might never cease to feel his own weakness and 
sinfulness, and so never cease, also, to watch and 
to pray against every temptation. She fully ap- 
proved his wish not to meet them till after their 
departure from Cheltenham, as he mentioned hav- 
ing heard from Mr. Villiers that some of the 
most dissipated of his former companions were re- 
siding there. This fact was confirmed to them by 
the card of a Mr. Harrison having beeir left at 
their door a few days before, with an inquiry af- 
ter Mr. Montague: the said Mr. Harrison being 
then noted in Cheltenham for liis profligacy, in 
conjunction with some other well-known charac- 
tef*s of that place. 

^‘That Mr. Temple must be a very good man !” 
said Sir George, while his wife was folding up 
Augustine’s letter. am very glad that our 
son has made such an acquaintance.” 

“I have heard Mr. Cramp and his nephew both 
speak in high terms of Mr. William Temple, Au- 
gustine’s late friend,” replied Lady Montague; 
<<and from Augustine’s present conduct, I cer- 
tainly think highly of the parents. And though 
I must confess, I much wished to see Augustine 
with us, as he used to be before he left us for that 
seat of sin, Cambridge, I think he may remain 
with benefit in Mr. Temple’s society.” — By some 
chance, Augustine had omitted any mention of 
Miss Temple in his letters. 


Is this Religion ? 


195 


A few evenings after he had received his fa- 
ther’s letter, Augustine was walking with Mr. 
Temple and his daughter to see a celebrated ruin 
at a short distance from Thursley. The weather 
was unusually lovely; the trees all bright with 
the tender leaves of spring; and the whole face of 
tlie earth beginning to wear its hues of gladness. 
“I often think,” said Charlotte, ‘‘that weilo not 
prize the open air as we ought. We can be con- 
tent to pass day after day in our dull, close hou- 
ses; forgetting the liberty, the joy — yes, and the 
comforts, which the skill of man cannot provide.” 

“But you forget our variable climate,” said 
Augustine, “which renders even dull, close hou- 
ses very pleasant places.” 

“Yes, but we do not enjoy the open air even 
when we may. For instance, I would not have 
you come hither in wintry weather, when yon 
would have found only the hard snow for a seat; 
and when the cutting wind would have whistled 
sharply through the bare branches: but now this 
bank is cushioned with thick moss, and violets 
and primroses are blooming about it; and now all 
the nakedness of winter has disappeared, and 
every little glade is curtained and covered in by 
the rich green foliage. Nay, the sunbeams which 
have brought back all this beauty to the lately 
barren boughs, will soon be only permitted to 
peep into these leafy cells; for nature always 


196 


Is this Religion ? 


keeps some pleasant places for those who love to 
bear her company, and when the sun shines too 
fiercely, she spreads a tliicker shade to screen 
him olF, or only lets in a little star of light to 
play upon the flowery carpet, and remind one 
that he is shining in all his summer splendour 
without.” 

all this fine poetical speech is to make 
us linger in this pleasant copse,” said Mr. Tem- 
ple, and he gently touched the glowing cheek of 
his daughter with his fingers. ' 

^‘Perhaps it is,” she said, and pressed his hand 
to her lips. “Or no, let me lead you on a little 
farther to a favourite nook of mine, half way up 
the hill above us, and there I should like to sit 
down^ for I am sure you may rest there, dear fa- 
ther, without catching cold. There the sun has 
been shining for hours upon the grass, and we 
shall find a seat upon the twisted roots of those 
immense fir-trees; and then you may help me to 
gather a large nosegay of violets for my mother, 
Mr. Montague ! I passed there this morning, 
and saw a bank literally purple with them.” 

They proceeded along the little path, following 
Charlotte towards the spot of which she had spo- 
ken; but when about to cross over the road, be- 
yond which rose the beautiful and wooded hill, 
they saw with surprise a caiTiage approaching at 
full speed. The horses ^vere evidently running 


Is this Meligmi 197 

away, and the coachman had been thrown from 
his scat. Augustine sprang forward, and with 
great dexterity, though at the risk of his life, he 
seized the horses, and stopped them in a few mo- 
ments. He was soon joined by some men from a 
field near the road, whom Mr. Temple had called 
to his assistance. They now recognised the car- 
riage of the Countess of C . One of the doors 

was open, and on looking in they found Lady 
Arabella de Roos (who had fallen in a fainting 
fit) lying at the bottom. She was lifted out, and 
placed on the bank by the road side, under the 
care of Mr. Temple and his daughter, while Mon- 
tague flew along the road in the direction from 
which the horses had come. About a quarter of 
a mile farther on, he beheld the object of his 
search stretched upon the hard road. There lay 
the almost lifeless body of the young Countess. — ■ 
He lifted her tenderly from the ground, and a 
cold shudder ran through him, as he beheld her 
white arm fall broken by her side, and discover- 
ed that she had received some dreadful injury on 
her head. He was turning, utterly perplexed 
what to do, when Charlotte came to his assis- 
tance. With a calmness and gentleness perfect- 
ly admirable, she instantly bandaged up the bro- 
ken arm; but her lip quivered with anguish when 
she looked steadily upon the face of the Countess. 
Quickly, however, she repressed her feelings, 

Q 2 


198 Is this Religion? 

and, turning to Montague, said, ^*Can you 
bleed 

He did not answer, but shook his head and 
groaned. 

^‘Have you a lancet? — A penknife 

He offered a penknife; and, with a countenance 
like death, but with a firm hand, the young girl 
opened a vein in the pulseless temple. A few 
drops of dark blood stained the ivory forehead, 
but they did not trickle even for a moment. Alas ! 
it was a dreadful sight to behold the still beauti- 
ful but disfigured form, wliich lay so helpless and 
calm upon the lap of the young maiden. Char- 
lotte sat there (wdiile Augustine hastened to seek 
further assistance) almost hopeless what to do, 
and yet anxious to leave no effort she couh^make 
untried. She pushed back the thick silken hair, 
and chafed the marble forehead; she placed her 
trembling hand over the warm side, to feel if the 
heart beneath still beat; she removed from the 
small slender hand the dust which it had gather- 
ed in its grasp when falling; she smoothed with 
modest care the rich folds of whitest silk about 
the delicate limbs; and, lastly, she pressed her 
own rosy mouth to the pale parted lips, and hoped 
with her warm balmy breath to recall the life 
which had ceased to hover there: and all the 
while her tears fell in large drops over the face 
and upon the bosom, on which a chain of rubies 


Is this Religion P" 


199 


shone with all their usual lustre, as if to mock 
the dreadful change which had been made: and 
all the while her thoughts were instant in prayer 
for the pale, lifeless creature, who had lost all 
2)ower of praying for herself. 

When the coachman had been tlirown from his 
seat, the horses had set off at their full speed; and 
the poor Countess, frantic with terror, disre- 
garded all tlie entreaties of her companion, that 
she would sit perfectly still, and wait for a chance 
of safety. She had succeeded in opening the 
door, and had thrown herself out headlong. Her 
right arm had fallen under her and been broken, 
and a concussion of the brain had taken place. 
The beautiful and noble heiress, whom, at that 
moment, half the county envied as the happiest 
and most favoured among them, was laid, a dis- 
figured corpse, upon the miserable bed of one of 
her poorest tenants. 

The Countess and Lady Arabella had been on 
their way to a splendid dinner-party, a few miles 
from Fountain Royal. Their only attendant was 
a servant on horseback, who, on account of the 
narrowness of the road along which they were to 
pass, had ridden forward to remove any impedi- 
ments in the way. Finding that the carriage did 
not follow, he had returned in time to be the first 
sent for medical assistance; but all medical as- 
sistance was vain. 


Is this Religion ? 


2oa 


The day fixed for the funeral of the deceased 
Countess arrived; the arrangements of which had 
been left to Villiers by the new Earl, then in 
France. Mr. Temple had been requested to 
perform the solemn service for the dead, and Au- 
gustine was invited to attend. 

Mr. Temple appeared very low and agitated 
when they met at breakfast that morning; and 
Augustine feared that he would be scarcely equal 
to the undertaking. He was rising to quit the 
breakfast-table, when a letter was put into bis 
hand. Mr. Temple, as his custom was, took 
out his spectacles, very leisurely fitted tliem on, 
and proceeded to read his letter. His wife 
thought him unusually long in reading the first 
page, and she said: <‘May I ask from whom 
that letter is, my dear?’’ 

He looked up gravely in his wife’s face, and 
seemed not to hear her; but when she repeated 
her question, he rose up and replied, as he left 
the room: ‘‘I will show you the letter, of course, 
my love. I have no secrets from you; or you 
either, sweet one,” he added, and kissed the 
cheek of his daughter, who sat watching his 
looks with anxious affection. 

<‘Do go to your father, my dear child,” said 
Mrs. Temple to Charlotte. heard him enter 
his study. I fear he has received some bad news; 
for he has been away so long a time, that I am 
quite uneasy.” 


Is this Religion ? 


201 


Charlotte came hack immediately, saying, 
that tlie study door was locked, but that her 
father had spoken to her with a very cheerful 
voice. 

Mr. Temple appeared a few minutes after, 
calm and more cheerful than he had seemed for 
days^ and he took his wife’s hand between his 
own, and said, that he could not well speak on 
the subject of the letter till after his return 
from the funeral, as it would lead to much con- 
versation. 

’ ^‘But are you uneasy, dearest?”^ asked the 
tender wife. 

^‘Indeed I am not,” and he smiled. <‘And as 
for the letter, you shall read it yourself after 
dinner.” 

Augustine was struck by the conduct and man- 
ner of Mr. Temple. Some new impulse had 
evidently arisen within him. He had not been 
acquainted with him before his son’s death, and 
he was evidently in very delicate health; but sud- 
denly he had begun to discover a firmness and un- 
failing cheerfulness of mind and demeanour that 
was new to Augustine. ‘‘Some joyful event has 
certainly happened,” thought Augustine; “and he 
will not mention it when seriousness and sorrow 
are so natural: he is right to wait till this sad 
funeral is over.” 

The body of the young Countess had been laid 


202 Is this Religion? 

in state for many days, and it happened that the 
room in which the coffin had been placed was that 
in which Augustine had found her sitting when 
he dined at Fountain Royal. The character of 
the apartment was changed, for it was hung en- 
tirely with blacky but he recognised the tripods of 
or-molu, and the same lamps of dull glass. 
When last he stood there, those very lamps shed 
their soft brilliant light on one rich in all the 
charms of health and beauty — now the room was 
darkened,* and as he came from the pure day- 
light, they seemed to cast a red and lurid glare* 
over the shapeless coffin in which the clay-cold 
corpse was laid. In vain did he try to banish 
the idea; but he could not drive from his mind the 
image of the Countess, as he had la.st seen her in 
those splendid rooms. Now she appeared con* 
versing, the eloquence of her mind speaking in 
her fine countenance; now bending her white and 
swan-like neck over her harp: then, and he shud- 
dered, her eyes seemed fixed with restless eager- 
ness upon the horrid card-table. 

He saw the coffin, all rich with velvet and 
gold, placed in its last resting-place — the cold, 
desolate vault. ‘^And I have seen the last 
now!” he said to himself, and turned away. 
‘‘This, this is the ending of that lovely vision 
which came across me but a few short weeks 
ago, in the full meridian of its beauty and its 
splendour !” 


CHAPTER XIIL 


^‘Now, my love!” said Mrs. Temple to her 
husband, “you will show me the letter ” 

They were sitting together in the old library 
of the parsonage, the windows of which looked 
upon the trim garden, laid out in the old-fashion- 
ed style, with broad gravel walks, and yew 
hedges as thick and straight and high as solid 
walls. Charlotte had been arranging some flow- 
ers in a large glass jar: she was now standing at 
the open window, gathering up the wliite petals 
which had fallen from an orange-tree full of blos- 
soms and fruit. The tree was a remarkably fine 
one, and had been sent her by the poor Countess 
not many days before her death. 

Mr. Temple replied to his wife, and promised 
to read the letter aloud immediately; but Char- 
lotte had not heard them speak. Her father came 
behind her and said, “You are thinking very 
deeply, my child i” 

Charlotte started, and she was obliged to re- 
call the sound oi his words before she could con- 
sider their sense. 

“Not very deeply, dear father, but I was cer- 


204 


/s this Religion? 


tainly thoughtful. I was thinking how fresh and 
beautiful every thing looks this evening, just as 
when the Countess died; all but the petals of this 
orange-tree, her own gift; and then the remem- 
brance of her death came over me like a strange, 
unnatural dream.” 

am going to turn your attention to another 
subject. Do you remember a promise which I 
made this morning, Charlotte ?” 

‘‘Yes! certainly I do, father: you are about to 
perform it now — to read that letter !” 

Charlotte sat down beside her mother. 

“Pray remain with us, Mr. Montague,” said 
Mr. Temple. “You are welcome to hear all the in- 
formation which this mysterious letter contains. 
It is simply this— We must prepare to leave our 
happy home. My rector, who had been for some 
time in an infirm state of health, died yesterday; 
and, although the late Countess had promised me 
the living on his long-expected death, I must lose 
it; for she has never made a will in which her 
intentions respecting me might have been men- 
tioned.” 

“But the present Earl well knows what her 
intentions were, my dear father said Char- 
lotte. 

“Yes; and the present Earl dislikes me, I fear. 
Nay, I know from the Countess herself that the 
Earl applied to her for the promise of this living 


Is this Religion ? 


205 


for bis former tutor, Dr. Meriton. I have little 
doubt, that by this time the Earl has given him 
the living.” 

Charlotte felt her mother’s hand tremble in her 
own. She looked in her face, and her feelings 
overcame her: she burst into tears. 

<‘Our sweet comforter must not forget her of- 
fice,” said Mr. Temple; and Charlotte instantly 
lifted up her face (all bathed in tears as it w^as), 
and, throwing her arms round her mother’s neck, 
kissed her repeatedly. Then, wiping her tears 
away, ‘‘Look, dear mamma!” she said, “what 
an example my father gives us ! This trial has 
brought with it, from the best and kindest hand, 
new strength, new hope, new comfort: and as our 
day is, so shall our strength be.” 

“I know it is right: I pray that it may be bles- 
sed to us, my own child,” replied Mrs. Temple: 
“but I feel it so very deeply ! You are young; 
and your heart is full of hopes, and cannot feel, 
as we must, what it is to be turned out of our 
quiet home in our old age; and to be obliged to go 
forth again among new faces, and form new ha^ 
bits and new connexions.” 

“I know that T cannot feel it so deeply as you 
do, dearest! but I am sure,” replied Charlotte, 
with a modest firmness that delighted Augustine, 
“I am sure that this trial is a blessing for us. — 
For my own part, I feel that I cannot be kept too 
R 


206 


Is this Religion ? 


watchful. I cannot be too often reminded of the 
uncertainty of every thing concerning this life: 
and this present trial seems scarcely an affliction, 
when I look forward to times that must come, 
over which man has no control. 1 do not wish 
those times to meet me unprepared, when I must 
stand by your bed-side, and by the bed-side of 
my own dear father, and hear the last words your 
lips will ever speak, and see the last looks of 
your dear eyes turned to me. I know that 
whether I w atch, or whether I slumber, these 
times must come, and that the days of darkness 
are many, and many will be the trials 1 must 
meet before my own awful summons to eternity. 
But with the constant thought of these certainties 
present to our minds, we may be very happy — 
aye, happier than those w ho think not of them, 
till they come suddenly, and force them to think. 
May we not, father 

^‘We may indeed, dear child. The command 
is plain and simple. **Be careful for nothing; 
l^ut in every thing by prayer and supplication, 
with thanksgiving, let your requests be made 
known unto God.^ And the promise made to 
them who keep that command is equally simple 
and sure: <And the peace of God, which passeth 
all understanding, shall keep your hearts and 
minds through Christ Jesus. 

Philipp, iy. 6, 7- 


Is this Religion ? 


207 


‘^Yes, you speak the truth,’’ said Mrs. Temple: 
begin already to see that the slightest murmur 
would be sinful in us. I trust I have daily watch- 
ed, lest I should be called to die, and depart un- 
prepared. I trust that were the hour of death at 
hand, I should not murmur. Why then should a 
call, which is not to death, disturb me thus ? I 
ought to have watched for this event,* but I have 
been strangely secure and careless. Yes, dear 
William ! it will help us forward in the right way 
to have our habits of ease, and perhaps indul- 
gence, interrupted. W^e should have been soon 
called to leave these harmless comforts, which we 
have enjoyed so long; and let us go cheerfully; 
for all things will work together for our good, if 
we love our Heavenly Father’s will.” 


Montague went that very evening to his friend 
Villiers, to ask his influence with the Earl in fa- 
vour of Mr. Temple; and Villiers entered at once 
into his feelings, and kindly wrote immediately, 
urging the intention and promise of the Countess. 
But two days after, a letter came from Dr. Me- 
riton to Mr. Temple, announcing himself as Rec- 
tor of Thursley, and signifying that the curate 
would be expected to vacate the parsonage in 
three months from that day, as Dr. Meriton in- 
tended to reside m his living. 


208 


Is this Religion ? 


Augustine had been, ever since the news of Mr. 
Temple’s loss of Thursley, the most melancholy 
person at the parsonage. His head had been full 
of schemes, none of which, however, met his ap- 
proval. Suddenly his manner changed, and the 
'lemples could not help remarking that his for- 
mer cheerfulness had returned. He dropped, at 
times, mysterious hints, or spoke in a very san- 
guine strain of some event which might happen. 

The following letter may explain his behaviour: 

‘‘My dearest mother — I see by the public pa- 
pers that the living of Westerton is vacant by the 
death of its late incumbent, and I know that the 
presentation is in the gift of my grandmother, to 
whom I enclose a letter: but ma}? I ask the kind 
influence of yourself and my dear father, in behalf 
of Mr. Temple, whose prospects, owing to the 
death of Lady C , have met w ith a very sud- 

den change. He had always looked forward to 
possessing the living of Thursley; but the Earl 
has disregarded the promise of the late Countess, 
and Mr. Temple will be obliged, in a quarter of 
a year, to quit even the curacy, which he has held 
for so many years. I suspect, from all that I 
can learn, that his own private fortune is very 
small indeed^ and as it is now so diflicult to meet 
with a curacy, I fear that he and his wife will be 
obliged to give up many of those comforts, which 
at their age, and in their delicate state of health, 


Is this Religimi 5^ 


a09 

have become almost necessary to them. I am 
delighted to think that Westerton is vacant, as I 
am sure you will approve my anxious desire to 
procure it for so exemplary a man as Mr. Tem- 
ple. He has not an idea that I am writing to you 
on this subject: he has never mentioned Wester- 
ton to me, thougli I think he must have seen in 
the paper in whose gift the living is. 

have hesitated whether or not I should 
speak to you on another subject, which occupies 
many of my thoughts. After the noble and un- 
deserved confidence which yourself and my father 
have reposed in me (unworthy as I have been of 
your regard), I cannot bear to conceal any thing 
from you; and I wish to prove that I do indeed 
feel towards you as I did when 1 told my every 
thought to you. You know how dear and faith- 
ful a friend Mr. Temple’s only son has been to 
me; but had I never seen him, I should have loved 
his sweet sister. She is altogether the most per- 
fect being I have ever met with; aud I feel my- 
self ennobled by my attachment towards her. I 
will not attempt to describe her character to you. 
I only wish you and my father to see her, as I 
have seen her in her own family? and among the 
poor: to see her modest Avisdom; her mild firmness; 
her perfect sweetness of temper; and, in a word, 
her genuine piety: and 1 am certain you would 
feel as anxious as I am to receive Jier into our 
R ^ 


210 


Is this Religion? 


family. I have been perhaps rather premature 
in declaring my sentiments to herself, and I wish 
I could say she had encouraged them. I now 
only wait for the sanction of my father and 
yourself, to declare myself more fully, not only to 
herself, but to her parents. I had made up my 
mind, as at present we are both rather young, to 
delay my proposals; but it seems to me that this is 
the proper time; and that now, wiien they are in 
distress and perplexity, nay, almost in poverty, 
Mr. and Mrs. Temple, and Charlotte herself, 
will feel how disinterested in any worldly point 
of view my attachment is. I think I know you 
both well enough to be certain, that you will 
gladly embrace this opportunity to promote the 
happiness of your child. I think I know you 
well enough to be certain, that you will readily 
receive a portionless daughter. I have lately re- 
ceived a proof of your liberality as to money, 
which I can never forget. And now, my dearest 
mother, I will only beg you to believe me your 
truly affectionate and very dutiful son, 

“Augustine Montague. 

“Perhaps my father will be so kind as to w rite 
a few lines to Mr. Temple on this subject.’’ 

And now, tell me, my reader, what think you 
of this letter ? 1 do not mean of the manner, 

but of the matter of it; but as you cannot tell me 
your opinion, 1 will tell you mine. 1 call it a 


Is this Religion? 


211 


most decided proof that poor Augustine, manly 
as he looked, was a mere child as to knowledge 
of the world; ay, and that he did not know his 
father and mother half so well as I know them. 
Had the letter been wrttten to old John Scott, I 
think his reply would have made his son very 
happy. But though Sir George, or rather Lady 
Montague, made as high a profession as that ven- 
erable Christian, the letter had a very different 
effect on them. There are two lines written by 
one* whose death has been a sad loss to all who 
knew either herself or her writings, which will 
describe the character of Sir George and Lady 
Montague: 

“Striving with pain in Zion^s paths to plod, 

But keeping Mammon for their household god.’* 

Their wealth was great, and, on the death of 
Lady Elizabeth, would be immense; but they 
looked upon that wealth as a reason why Augus- 
tine should marry a person of high rank and 
great riches. They considered that he had a 
claim to do so: and the idea of his uniting him- 
self to the portionless daughter of an unknown 
country curate was insupportable. Augustine 
was also mistaken in attributing any remarkable 
liberality as to money, to his mother; for it hap- 
♦ Jane Taylor. 


212 


Is this Religion 9 


pcned, that instead of approving her husband’s 
conduct towards her son, when he paid his debts, 
and restored the young man to his confidence, she 
had been at first highly incensed, and would fain 
have vented her displeasure in a letter very dif- 
ferent from that which her husband wrote. But 
Sir George had roused himself, and for once ta- 
ken his own way, and had insisted on her forbear- 
ing to interfere between himself and Augustine, 
Had Lady Montague been possessed of millions, 
she would not have possessed a liberal spirit. — 
Whether it was that she had been early accustom- 
ed to the confined ideas of a money-getting and 
money-saving shop (not but there are many, 
many noble spirits behind a counter), or whether 
(which I believe was the truth) she had naturally 
a narrow mind, which tiie true spirit of the gos- 
pel could alone have enlarged — certain it was, 
that with all her money, and all her consequence, 
and all her religion, she was still mean, cold, and 
worldly at heart. When poor Augustine’s letter 
came, she read it in silence, and in silence she 
put it into her husband’s hands; but the silence 
was that forced, unnatural calm which precedes 
a fearful storm; and so many were her comments, 
that not a line did the poor man read in peace. 

<*And now. Sir George,” she said, with a bit- 
terness of tone and manner which made him 
sihrug his shoulders, as if he dreaded some sharp 


Is this Religion 


213 


blows upon them, ‘‘you see the consequence of 
your silly indulgence, of the confidence which 
you were pleased to place in this ridiculous boy 
of yours ! 1 only wish I had determined to do 

what was right, and treated him as he deserved, 
after his infamous conduct at Cambridge. It is 
you who are to blame for the wicked encourage- 
ment you gave him.’’ 

And thus she went on, till the poor man (who 
was willing to purchase peace at any terms) walk- 
ed away, begging her to act as she pleased, and 
secretly hoping that she would save him the trou- 
ble of breaking off all prospect of a connexion 
which he^ disliked almost as much as herself. 

The first thing she did was to throw Augus- 
tine’s letter to Lady Elizabeth into the fire: she 
then summoned Mr. Cramp to a conference, the 
fruit of which we shall soon see. 

“My dear Augustine — I am not only astonish- 
ed but shocked at your letter. Your poor father 
is perfectly confounded at your effrontery. He 
begs me to take upon myself the ungracious task 
of admonishing you. We never can, and never 
will countenance your proceedings while they 
continue what they are. As for your duplicity 
in declining to join us at this place, lest you 
should be drawn into any intercourse with your 
former most profligate companions, it deserves the 
contempt with which I now regard it. What do 


214 


Is this Religion? 


we know of this Miss Temple, that should induce 
us to consent to your forming any connexion with 
her or her family ? I must say, that if we were 
to form an opinion by what we do know, that is, 
the arts by which they have drawn in an unsus- 
pecting young man, our opinion would be as se- 
vere, as I fear it would be just. 

^‘But let me hope that when you receive this 
letter you will give me a proof that there is some 
truth in your fine promises. Give up at once, 
and for ever this disgraceful attachment, and set 
off, on the very day you receive this, to join us 
in London. We shall leave Clieltenham at six 
to-morrow morning, and (if we live) be in Park 
Lane the same evening. Obey us strictly in 
these requests, and you may hope to be received 
by an affectionate mother, 

‘‘Maria Montague.’^ 

“P. S. In answer to your very strange appli- 
cation about the living of Westerton, I need oijly 
say, that we have written very strongly to Lady 
Elizabeth in favour of that truly pious and excel- 
lent young man, Mr. Tarver. Ah ! how happy 
his family are when they think on him ! You can 
best tell what you feel in contrasting your con- 
duct with his.” 

Augustine, in his impatience, had walked some 
way from the village to meet the boy who brought 
the letters. His hand trembled with joyful conh- 


Is this Religion? 


515 


deuce as he broke tlie seal. He read the letter, 
and then stood like one stiipified; his blood began 
to boil in his veins, and all his bad feelings seem- 
ed to rush into his heart again. ‘‘It is uselcSvS,” 
he cried, “to attempt obedience to them,” and he 
walked on rapidly, too disturbed to think, or to 
decide on any thing. He was at the gate of the 
parsonage garden before he felt that he was not 
in a state to speak with any human being. He 
turned away, leaped over the low railing that in- 
closed the churchyard; and rushed into the shade 
of the aged yew trees, where he knew ho could 
remain unseen. While he stood thcie (leaning 
against the old trunk of one of the trees, and 
watching a snail as it crawled over a broken 
tombstone at his feet, listless as to what he 
thought or looked upon, the sound of approaching 
footsteps awoke his attention), he looked up, and 
saw Mr. Temple with Charlotte leaning on his 
arm. They were passijig along to the church, 
and a smiling little procession follow ed them. — 
Augustine recollected that he had agreed with 
C harlotte to be present that very morning at the 
wedding of a young country maiden, justly es- 
teemed in the village, and a great favorite at the 
rectory. He saw them pass along, and he had 
not the heart to join them. But Charlotte turn- 
ed her head (as if in search of some one) and then 
spoke to her father. He heard her pronounce his 


216 


Is this Religion ? 


name — lie did not stop to think, — in another mo- 
ment he was at her side, forgetting (while he 
looked in her face, and listened to her sweet 
voice) that lie was, in his own opinion, the most 
miserable creature in the world. During the so- 
lemn marriage service he had time enough to re- 
call all the bitterness of his feelings. It seemed 
a mockerv to his wretchedness to be brought to 
the very altar, where he had once hoped to re- 
ceive, from the same minister, the hand of her 
who stood beside him; and to know, at the same 
time, that impediments and perplexities, which he 
could scarcely hope to see removed, stood between 
him and such happiness. And, Oh ; how he ha- 
ted his riches, as he looked on the bride and bride- 
groom, so happy in their poverty ! Had he not 
felt that it would have been not only useless but 
ridiculous, for him to do so, he would have implor- 
ed Mr. Temple to unite him to Charlotte before 
they quitted the church. 

At breakfast Augustine was distrait and melan- 
choly, and Mrs. Temple (who had been astonish- 
ed at his cheerfulness for the two previous days) 
said very kindly, “You do not look yourself, 
dear Mr. Montague! Has any thing unpleasant 
occurred ? I cannot help being anxious about 
you, for you know I consider you as my son.’’ — 
Augustine felt something rise in his throat, and 
ehoke him; he could not trust himself to speak.-— 


Is this 'Religion? 2 IT 

Mrs. Temple turned towards her husband and 
Charlotte for some explanation, but her alarm in- 
creased as she beheld the countenance of the for- 
mer. He handed over a letter to Augustine, and 
said in a mild but sorrowful voice, “Can you ex- 
plain to me the meaning of this What was 
the dismay of poor Augustine to behold another 
letter in the same strain from his mother to Mr. 
Temple! unkind, nay, almost insulting, — begging 
to remind him of his duty as a parent and as a 
Christian; and desiring him not to detain Augus- 
tine another hour under his roof, but to use his 
influence and make him return instantly to his 
parents ! With downcast eyes, and cheeks burn- 
ing with shame, more like a culprit, than what 
he was in truth, an honest-hearted, high-princi- 
pled young man;^ Augustine offered all the expla- 
nation that he could. He gave a circumstantial 
account of his own views, and of the way in 
which he had made them known to his parents; 
and mentioned the letter which he had also re- 
ceived from his mother that morning. “Alas!’^ 
he said, as he concluded, “I fear 1 am to blame 
for being so very sanguine. My letter was, I 
now see, ill-timed; and I (who love you all with 
an affection which can never change) have been 
the means of adding to the trials you are called 
upon to bear.’’ Augustine could say no more; he 
covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud. 
S 


218 


Is this Religion ? 


not make yourself miserable about us, my 
dear young friend !’’ said Mr. Temjde, with his 
usually mild voice, when he found that Augustine 
was able to hear him. ‘‘That letter does not dis- 
turb me. I feel more for you, and for the writer 
of it, than for myself; for I am (blessed be God !) 
conscious of upright intentions. Your mother 
does not know us — she does not know my Char- 
lotte; and designing persons are now so often met 
with, that I am not very much astonished at her 
suspicions. You will prove to her by your con- 
duct how unfounded those suspicions are, and 
that your residence in this family has rendered 
you not a less affectionate or a less obedient child 
than you have ever been.” 

“JTou would not have me,” said Augustine, 
-“forget that respect which I owe, not only to you 
but to myself ?” 

“Indeed I would not; but I would have you at 
the same time remember, that one of the most re- 
volting characters is an undutiful child. We 
may have many brethren, many children, nay, 
more than one wife, but we can have only one 
mother. Whenever it is consistent witli a still 
higher duty to be obedient to an earthly parent, 
we should cheerfully obey.” 

“But in this instance!” said Augustine. 

“In this instance,” interrupted Mr. Temple, 
“you can obey; at least you can obey one com- 


Is this Religion 


219 


inand — ^to leave us this very day, and meet your 
parents in London.’^ 

^‘And leave you in your distress 

Nay, do not speak so slightingly of our faith, or 
of our God,” exclaimed Charlotte, meekly. — 
^‘The one will never fail us while we look sted- 
fastly to the other. They are privileged children 
whom tlieir Heavenly Father chasteneth, ^though 
no chastening for the present seemeth joyous.^-—. 
Do follow my father’s advice; and remember, that 
while you hesitate, you tacitly admit that the sus- 
picions which have been awakened against us are 
true. Your own conduct towards your parents 
may alter their opinion very greatly of mine. I 
am sure you will do what is right ! You will seek 
the spirit of wisdom and sound judgment ! You 
will not suffer yourself to be guided by your own 
inclination.” 

Charlotte spoke with that distinct but soft 
enunciation, at times so peculiar to her, which 
gave an interest to the most trifling words she 
uttered; but as she finished speaking, and met the 
full ardent gaze of Augustine, a blush of the 
richest crimson dyed her modest face. 

‘^And you would have me discard my dearest 
earthly hopes !” said he, his voice trembling, and 
almost failing with agitation, as he spoke. <‘You 
would also forbid me to think of Charlotte !-«• 
You would also wish me to forget her !” 


320 Is this Religion? 

will not reply to these assertions/^ said Mr. 
Temple. Charlotte can answer them as she 
wishes. She is unrestrained, and free to decide 
for herself,” continued her father, and his look 
and his smile were indeed gratifying to his child. 

Again the rich blush spread over her face; but 
she disregarded her own confusion, and met the 
gaze of Augustine with a sweet and modest smile, 
which gave its graces to her words. confess, 
freely confess, that I love you; but, without any 
prudery, I utterly disclaim all pretensions to that 
wild and infatuated passion which novel writers, 
and some others (she looked very archly at Au- 
gustine, as if to remind him whom she meant) 
dignify with the sacred name of love. I cannot 
promise you,” she added, playfully, ^^to die or 
lose my senses, should our love be crossed; but I 
can promise you, I trust I can, never to doubt 
you even in thought — to be faithful in absence — 
to think of you, and pray for you without ceasing, 
and to look forward with anxious hope to the 
time when I may become the partner of your 
every joy and sorrow. And now (having made 
this bold confession) let me turn it to some good 
account. Let me beseech you, by the claims 
which you have given me to your love, to pray 
that you may see clearly your plain straight-for- 
ward duty to God; and that you may not only see, 
but consider and perform it, notwithstanding 
every difficulty and temptation in your way.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


The meeting between Augustine and his pa~ 
rents was constrained on his part; and poor Lady 
Montague, as usual, was^very injudicious in her 
manner of treating her son. Sir George was 
really glad to see him, and appeared to have for- 
gotten that there had been any difference between 
them. He would fain have turned the conversa- 
tion, at least for that first evening, to indifferent 
subjects: but Lady Montague forgot all the fa- 
tigues of her long journey, and adhered most per- 
tinaciously to her own opinion, <that Augustine 
ought to understand her — nay, that he should - 
Augustine, also, had no wish to avoid the subject, 
which weighed so heavily at his heart: and he 
willingly listened and replied to his mother. But 
Lady Montagiib little knew the difficulties of the 
task she had undertaken. Her son had come 
back an altered being. He had learnt humility, 
and wisdom, and experience. She found no lon- 
ger a yielding child, without even an opinion of 
his own; or a sullen, self-conceited lad, whose ar- 
guments it was easy to overthrow, and whose in- 
solence it afforded her satisfaction to meet, with 
S 2 


222 


Is this Religion 9 


all the bitterness she could command. She scarce^ 
ly knew why, but she now found herself unable to 
answer, much less to convince, as she conversed 
with Augustine. But Sir George, who was a 
cool and silent spectator, could not help confes- 
sing to himself that there was much sense in all 
that Augustine said; and that his manner towards 
his mother was as distinguished by gentle and 
respectful mildness, as by modest but unshaken 
firmness. All her reproachful invectives he bore 
with great sweetness of temper; but when she re- 
peated her commands, that he should entirely re- 
nounce all intercourse with the Temples, she 
found him inflexible. 

I know that I have touched upon a subject in 
which it is vain to attempt to please many of my 
readers. There are so many dogmatical parents, 
who will not tolerate a shadow of difference in 
opinion, as to marriage ! and there are so many 
young persons who deem themselves victims to 
parental tyranny, and look upon the meanest de- 
ceit, the most persevering opposiflon, as not only 
excusable, but laudable, where a lover is concern- 
ed, that I think it likely my book will be flung 
down by the one party as dangerous, and by the 
other as heretical ! But I would bid parents and 
children both look, not to their common opinions, 
but to their common sense; not to their ow n blind- 
ed will, but to the will of God, as declared in the 
Holy Bible. 


223 


Is this Religion ? 

Augustine had determined within himself to de- 
fer for some little time any attempt to influence 
his parents in favour of his attachment to Char- 
lotte Temple; but on one point of dispute between 
them he knew there must be no delay. He had 
beared his mother speak of her hopes that Mr. 
Tarver would be the successful candidate for the 
living of Westerton; and he had contented himself 
with saying, ‘^that though be was sorry to op- 
pose her wishes, he should call on his grandmo- 
ther, to recommend Mr. Temple.’^ 

‘‘And what on earth,’’ she said, “can induce 
you to set yourself against that admirable young 
man ?” (Augustine bit his lips as she pronounced 
the word admirable,) “Your friend! your own 
college friend, too ! and one who never led you 
into wickedness, like the rest.” 

“I assure you,” replied Augustine calmly, 
“that I have no wish to injure Mr. Tarver (who, 
however, is not my friend); and the reason why I 
hope he will not succeed with Lady Elizabeth is 
simply this: that he is not to be named with Mr. 
Temple !” 

Augustine felt less scruple to oppose Mr. Tar- 
ver, as that gentleman had lately espoused a wi- 
dow lady, many years older than himself, and 
had come into the possession of her large income. 
This lady was the very Mrs. Hunter Bond, with 
whom my readers are already acquainted, who, 


224 


Is this Religion? 


by the sudden death of a relation, with whom she 
had lived in that capacity which is vulgarly term- 
ed ‘^toadeater,” had inherited the whole fortune 
of the generous dupe. Finding it not only fash- 
ionable but at last convenient, to assume the title 
of a saint, she had become a follower of popular 
preachers. From frequenting a little stifling cha- 
pel of ease in the vicinity of Bermondsey, where 
Mr. Tarver collected crowds of those persons 
who have been so well described by St. Paul,* 
<‘They will not endure sound doctrine, having 
itching ears,’’ her splendid equipage was observed 
to wait, long after the congregation had dispers- 
ed, at the vestry-door, till the portly preaclier al- 
lowed her to convey him to his lodgings. At 
length she, who liad shown herself such an adept 
in flattery, became tlie dupe of grosser flatteries 
than she had ever offered^ and consented to be- 
lieve that she made him, as her husband, the hap- 
piest of mankind. 

The morning after his arrival in London, Au- 
gustine called on Lady Elizabeth Montague. The 
old lady now lived quite secluded from the w orld, 
and seldom consented to see even her own rela- 
tions. Yet she exacted from them the most par- 
ticular attentions. When Augustine was quite a 
child, he had been the especial favourite of the 
old lady; and, notw ithstanding the accounts which 
* Tim. ch, 4, v. 3. 


Is this Religion? 


^5 

!»lie had heard of his dissolute manners, she alone 
had told his parents ‘that he was not the only 
person to be blamed.’ 

Lady Elizabeth had many prejudices in favour 
of noble birth, and her daughter-in-law (knowing 
this, and fearing the influence of Augustine ) had 
written to the old lady from Cheltenham, not only 
to recommend Mr. Tarver; but to inform her, 
that her grandson was very anxious to degrade his 
family- by a very low connexion. Lady Mon- 
tague had some idea in her own mind that she had 
seen Mr. Temple in her early life, when Lady 
Elizabeth might have docmod Sir George’s mar- 
riage with herself ‘a low connexion.’ She was not 
very anxious to be recognised by Mr. Temple. 

Lady Elizabeth Montague resided in a large 
house in Burlington Gardens. As Augustine ap- 
proaclied the door, it opened, and a gentleman in 
black came out. He recognised Mr. Tarver in 
the well-fed, portly personage who descended the 
steps, smiling most graciously as he turned his 
head and spoke to the tall gaunt porter at the 
door. Mr. Tarver began to draw off his glove 
the instant his eye caught the figure of Augustine; 
but Augustine noticed not his extended hand, and 
passed him quickly, with a very distant bow. 

“My lady will not see any one this morning, 
sir,” replied tlie porter, when Augustine had an- 
nounced himself. 


2J26 


Js this Religion 9 


she not?” said Augustine. ^<Why was 
that gentleman admitted, then, whom I have just 
passed ?” 

^‘He was admitted to write a note, but he did 
not see my lady.” 

‘‘But tell your mistress I am here, and wish 
to see her. You seem to have forgotten who I 
am.” 

“Oh! no, I haven’t, master Augustine,” said 
the old man. “I’ll go and bid them tell my lady; 
but I fear she will refuse to see even you.” 

Soon after the old housekeeper came down into 
the hall, followed b^ the portcrj and ahe made a 
low' curtsey to Augustine, and looked very prim, 
and said very little; but that little signified a de- 
cided refusal on the part of Lady Elizabeth to 
see her grandson. 

“But what is the reason? Is she ill?” 

“My lady is not very well.” 

Augustine did not stop to reply; but passing 
them both, he sprang lightly up the stairs, and 
stood at the door of* Lady Elizabeth’s dressing- 
room before the aged pair below had recovered 
from their dismay and astonishment. He knock- 
ed very gently at the door. “Come in !” exclaim- 
ed the old lady. He obeyed. Lady Elizabeth 
was a slender old lady, rather above the middle 
height, with a peculiarly clear, pale complexion, 
and soft, benevolent blue ej^es. She w as remark 


Is this Religion"^ 2S7 

ably gentle and feminine in her manners, though 
eccentric in her ways of thinking and acting. 

‘‘How is this?’’ she cried, rising from her seat 
with much calm dignity. “I desired not to be 
disturbed.” 

The little dog, which lay at his mistress’ feet, 
had sprung up the instant Augustine entered the 
room: and discovering an old acquaintance, he 
leaped about Augustine, expressing his delight in 
many playful ways, and springing up to kiss his 
hand. 

“Down, sir, down,” he said, caressing the 
little dog: then, looking Lady Elizabeth steadily 
in the face, and still holding the lock of the door 
in his hand, he said; “Is my presence really a dis- 
turbance? Do you, for the first time, command 
me to leave you? If you do, madam, I will go in- 
stantly.” 

“No,” she replied, evidently pleased by his re- 
spectful manner. “Come, and sit down near 
me;” she held out her hand as she spoke. “You 
were wont to ask my blessing, dear child !” she 
said, and immediately her grandson came for- 
ward, and knelt down before her. She blessed 
him, placing her hands upon his head; and then 
passing her hand again lightly and fondly over 
his hair, she said, “I am a strange, fanciful old 
woman, and I ought to think more seriously, be- 
fore I refuse to see my only grandchild. I gave 


228 


Is this Religion ? 


you but a sorry welcome, my dear child ! Even 
that little dog would have taught me better* But 
sit down, and explain to me why, in the first 
place, you were so determined to see me.” 

‘‘I wish,” he replied, ‘*to receive from your 
own lips, a reply to the letter I sent you.” 

< ‘Letter ! when? what letter?” and she looked 
astonished. 

Augustine explained how that he had begged 
his mother to foiwvard his letter to her. 

“Go on,” she said, quietly. 

And Augustine proceeded to explain to her the 
purport of his letter,* and then, by degrees, she 
drew from him a full account of his stay at Thurs- 
ley^ and she made him describe the characters, 
the manner of living, even tlie persons of Mr. and 
Mrs. Temple,, and their daughter Charlotte. 

“And now tell me,^’ she said, when Augustine 
had ceased speaking, “why would you have me 
give this living, which is at my disposal, rather 
to Mr. Temple than to the gentleman who made 
the first application for it? Can you offer any 
reason, why Mr. Tarver is less w orthy to possess 
the living than he?” 

Tlie temptation was great to Augustine, but 
indignantly he spurned it. “I wish to offer no 
reason, my dear madam: you have doubtless 
heard Mr. Tarver extolled by his friends, or fol- 
io wersj and you know all thatl can tell you about 


this lieligion ? 


Mr. Temple. I will not presume to put forward 
my opinion. The decision is entirely with you. 
You well know which you think the most deserv- 
ing; and I am sure you will decide accordingly.’^ 

Lady Elizabeth sat without speaking for some 
minutes; and then she asked a few more questions 
about Mrs. Temple particularly; while she was 
doing so, she walked to the farther end of the 
room, and took from a table a small golden case. 
“Does Mrs. Temple bear any resemblance to 
this miniature?” she said, putting the little pic- 
ture into his hand. 

“It is a little like Mrs. Temple; but it is very 
like her daugliter:” and then he recollected, that 
it was her resemblance to this little miniature 
(which he had often loved to gaze on when a child) 
that had made him imagine that Charlotte’s coun- 
tenance was not unknown to him. 

“I cannot be mistaken,” said the old lady; 
your Mrs. Temple was a dear friend of mine 
many years ago; and that is her portrait. Her 
maiden name was Eardley.” 

“1 do not remember to have heard her maiden 
name; but 1 know that the two names of her son, 
my friend, were William Eardley.” 

“And now, my child,” said Lady Elizabeth, 
“give me my writing-table.” 

He placed it before her, and she took a packet 
of papers from the drawer, and selecting one of 
T 


230 Is this Religion 9 

them, she wrote a few words upon it, and said to 
her grandson: ‘^There, Augustine, take this, and 
enclose it in a letter to Mr. Temple, with my 
love to my dear friend, Juliana Eardley; but I for- 
got, you must mention my maiden name also, 
Elizabeth Vernon. You will find pens and pa- 
per in the library. Remember you do not return 
to me, unless I call for you, for a full hour. You 
can amuse yourself with the books; or perhaps 
you would like to write a long letter to your fa- 
vourite Charlotte Temple; only rememher not to 
send it till you have seen me again. 

Augustine had scarcely left the room, when 
Sir George and Lady Montague were announced. 
‘‘Let them come up immediately,’’ said the old 
lady. 

“Your visit is well timed, for I was about to 
send for you both,” she said. “Sit down beside 
me, and give me your attention for a little time. 
I am about to ask a favour of you, my dear George, 
and of you also, my dear madam, but don’t inter- 
rupt me — hear what I have to say first, before 
you make any remark, or ask any question — I 
beg to apologise for making such a request, but 1 
am sure you will grant it. I am now getting 
very aged — I cannot expect to remain with you 
many years longer. I wish to see some prospect 
of my grandson’s marriage; for I know he has 
been for the last few years a source of some un- 


Is this Religion? £31 

easiness to yon^ as well as to myself. I am apt 
to think that an attachment to a discreet and pi- 
ous maiden may be of great service to a young 
man. I have lately discovered a dear friend, 
whom I had lost sight of for many years. Though 
much younger than myself, we loved one another 
like sisters. She accompanied her aunt, Lady 

M , to some foreign court, when her uncle, 

Lord M , was made minister there. I now find 

that she is the wife of a most excellent man, a cler- 
gyman, whose fortune is not large, little more 
than a living which is valued at a thousand pounds 
a year. They have an only daughter, in person 
the exact resemblance of her mother, whose mi- 
niature you have often admired. — This is it. — Her 
uncommon loveliness of person is, however, her 
least recommendation. She is what the daughter 
of a pious minister of Christ ought to be. 

“Do you think, if I were to ask my beloved 
friend, wit!i her husband and their sweet daugh- 
ter, to visit me at Hurstwood, that I could pre- 
vail on Augustine to come also? and might I de- 
pend on the promise of your agreeable society at 
the same time? And supposing this young lady 
should answer our expectations, and ('which is not 
improbable!) engage the affections of our beloved 
Augustine, do you think there would be any objec- 
tion to their union — at the expiration, w e will say, 
of a year, as they are both but young at present?^* 


is this Religion 


Sir George was about to reply, biitlindiug tiiai. 
his lady, as usual, had determined to speak for 
him, he waited to hear her opinion. Slie bad al- 
ways stood in awe of Lady Elizabeth, and she 
was not a little pleased to receive such a proof of 
her confidence. 

am sure,” she cried, looking round to Sir 
George, with a smile which seemed to say, she 
was certain that his opinion coincided with her 
own, ‘‘I am sure both Sir George and myself 
cannot but highly approve this proposition of 
your Ladyship; and to tell you the truth, I have, 
since I wrote to you, been more seriously alarm- 
ed than ever, lest Augustine should disappoint all 
our expectations by forming that low connexion, 
about which I communicated to you my fears. — 
He arrived in town last night, and appears inflex- 
ibly bent on following his own wicked and per- 
verse inclinations.” 

have seen him this morning,” replied Lady 
Elizabeth, ‘‘and 1 have spoken to him about the 
connexion to which you allude: and I am happy 
to say, that I found liiin more reasonable than 1 
could have supposed. I showed him that minia- 
ture, which he used to admire when quite a boy; 
and he seemed to agree with me, that it was the 
sweetest countenance he had ever seen. I did not 
find it very difficult to make him believe, that the 
original might be all that a husband could desire- 


Is this Religion ? 


2S7 


eideiits, or fine language. I have a higher aim, 
though a humbler manner. I write to the com- 
mon sense of my readers. I am in earnest, and 
wish to be perfectly natural in my story and in 
my style. Far be it from me to attempt to low- 
er the tone of the religion of the gospel: yet I 
must say that I am heartily sick of the narrow 
minds and the weak heads I meet with. I am 
sick of their ignorance, their unkind prejudices, 
their display, their insufferable cant. Wlien they 
have discovered ^‘the pearl of great price,’’ they 
treat it as the cock in the fable treated the jewel 
which he found. Far be it from me also, to join 
with that cold-hearted and formal party whose 
religion is neither to be found in the Bible, nor 
in their own hearts,* who are always ready to con- 
demn the opinions and the conduct of all who do 
not think and act as themselves; who lavish their 
senseless abuse on many of the wisest and best of 
mankind. With them, all pious persons are Me- 
thodists or Calvinists, and the very mention of 
the Bible Society, or any other religious society, 
is offensive. I cannot endure that every difference 
should instantly be made the watchword of a par- 
ty. We need to be reminded, “Sirs, ye are bre- 
thren.” I have often wished that the two parties 
could know the contempt with which their pitiable 
differences are regarded by men of talent who 
have no religion. They might then see the good 


238 Is this Religion 

sense and the good policy of agreeing, wherever 
it is possible to agree, rather than to cast a dis- 
credit on the faith they profess. Who, that saw 
the virulence, the spirit of persecution on each 
side, would believe that we professed to serve the 
same God and Saviour^ that we read the same 
Scriptures,* that we were alive to the same hopes 
and fears ! When will those blessed times come 
in which a difference in any religious point will 
cease to be almost the bitterest source of dislike? 

In the story you have been reading, I have at- 
tempted to show how it is that the children of 
many persons who are deemed saints, turn out 
sinners. But this is not always the case; for a 
careless or timid spirit in a parent may also 
prove the ruin of his children. There is many an 
Eli now, even among the priests of the Lord, 
who, notwithstanding his own personal holiness, 
will have to answer, for his criminal indulgence 
and forbearance towards his children, to the liv- 
ing God, 

I think, however, that some of my readers will 
be convinced that I have not drawn from my own 
imagination, but from the life. There are too 
many Lady Montagues now living, and too many 
Augustines ! and I shall indeed be rewarded if to 
any such my experience should prove beneficial. 
I wish to show, how cruel it is to send a young 
person forth into the world without preparing him 


239 


Is this Religion ? 

for its deceits and dangers ! how cruel it is not to 
educate him for his pilgrimage through the world ! 
not to warn him, as St. Paul does the Corin- 
thians,* that he cannot entirely forsake the com- 
pany of the vain and the wicked (for to escape 
them we must needs go out of the world He 
should be taught rather to ‘‘use the world as not 
abusing it;” to regard it as a state of trial and 
warfare, not as a home, which he may love — 
where he may rest. 

“And do I not think an university a very dan- 
gerous place?” you may now say. Indeed, I do 
not. I would send a young man thither: ^tis a 
fine stage for the trial of his principles. They 
must be tried, and they will scarcely fail, if he 
has been taught to put on the whole armour of 
God, and not merely to talk about it. There is 
an age of innocence and an age of principle. Let 
a young man be told in a plain and serious man- 
ner of the temptations which await him in the 
world. Do not leave him to find them for the 
first time, when their very novelty will make 
them charming. Talk to him on subjects, which 
you would not even mention were it not to warn 
him. And never forget to guard him against 
trusting to his own strength, but point out to him 
tliat his real strength lies in watchfulness and 
prayer. 


* 1 Cor. 5. 


240 


Is this 


Again, though I mean to say that we are not 
to make a display and a boast of our religion, yet 
we should always remember that we hold a high 
profession (we cannot hold a higher) when we call 
ourselves Christians. — It is to be lamented that 
there are so many false professors among the real- 
ly pious; but the fact is not less true than natural, 
that when any religious society is formed — 
when any work of piety is to be performed — 
we shall always find, not only the best and 
holiest of our brethren engaged there, but those 
whose religion is all talk and display. That 
very nature, those very qualities, which will be 
sure to injure the good cause to which they join 
themselves — urge them to be first and foremost in 
it. Do you not know that where the corn grow^, 
the tares will be found also? 


THE END. 










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